The River of Time, Part II

I’ll leave a day before I have to

And will seem cold or even mean

When I hold out to you my hand to

Say good-bye; this time I will mean it;

/

From the museum you built around me

I cannot help but want to run:

I was born human, not an idol,

Frozen in place, forever young;

/

I will walk quicker than I need to,

I will go farther than I must,

And on the banks of a misty river

I’ll make of twigs a bony hut;

/

If on a dark night dies my bonfire,

My heart will set my flesh alight,

And smoke and fog will dance together,

And wood and bone will turn to dust;

/

You, who was once me, and who tried to

Protect from flames that born to burn,

To put on a pedestal a human, to keep

From leaving what was gone,

/

Don’t be afraid to live the moment

Of you and I becoming one

On the banks of a misty river

Under the early morning sun

The Bucket List

I should have gone to touch the ocean

And watch the golden sun disk rise

Above the line of the horizon

In this one life at least one time;

/

I should have let white winds embrace me

Up on the sharpest mountain peaks;

I should have dared Saharan heat to melt me

As I chased after desert ghosts and visions;

/

I should have learned forbidden spells and curses

And in my heart reforged them into prayers;

I should have fought, not run, from battles;

I should have bled, and won, and lost;

/

I should have easier abandoned

Those who would waste a second of my life,

I should have easier surrendered,

And watched with calm the passing of my hours;

/

I should have doubled and returned

Each smallest gift I have been granted;

I should have used up every breath that

I did not know the worth of till tonight;

/

Tonight it is too late to travel

To see the sun spread wings over the sea;

Tonight’s no time to climb a mountain

For tonight it is monsoon season;

/

Tonight all desert jinns are sleeping

A sleep no human can disturb;

Tonight no witch, no ghost, no demon

Need teach me: by myself I’ll learn

/

That fights are only for the living,

That blood, victories and defeats

Are merely clouds, forever crossing

The skies above the river Styx;

/

I fidget in my empty pockets:

What little that I had is gone;

All I have left is but two coins

To pay the ferryman Charon

The Runaway Train

Endless rails sing your tale in the rain

And winds chase you aross empty valleys and plains;

Lonesome stations as if retreat into themselves

At no more than a hint of your name;

/

For as long as there’s fire in your metal veins

And ahead of you — space and more space,

You will fly like a dream through the day

Till the dreamer derails you, her runaway train

At the Harbor

I sail away;

There isn’t an anchor

To keep in place

This that no longer has one;

No harbor can contain

The ship, that’s turned

Into the storm, by which

It was all but devoured;

/

I take with me my ghosts

To sing me lullabies

When I cross the horizon

Into the night;

And I take with me my cargo

Of memories,

Which will not slow me now

With their heaviness;

/

I leave for you to play with

Three souvenirs:

My shape, my voice and the name,

By which you knew me;

Maybe, in my stead

You’ll love them unsuspectingly

Or curse them, perhaps, when you sense

That there is something missing;

/

Mine is a cruel joke,

Isn’t it?

Mine is a heartless test

Of your heart;

I do not ask you to forgive

But to laugh with me;

To pass or fail,

But to do so honestly;

/
Trust that

For you I wait

At the horizon

Eternally