While I am writing this poem, I am scribbling
some notes for my next book.
They say that’s always the case, don’t they?
Also, they say that a broken clock is right twice
a day. I remember, a few years ago during one
night in the forest, I was chased by two shiny eyes.
I had no knife. I was armed with a rusty searchlight
and a bottle of brandy. But I will keep that story
for my next book. Now, I have something else on
my mind. While I am writing this down in my
shabby notebook, I look out the window. Outside,
the nightly silence is spreading, and above that,
the great mountain hangs over. Vultures and bats
are cutting the sky and sing songs unheard by
everyone but me. And it seems to me that today,
for the first time, I’ve heard within the long river
the true voice of the water. I saw on the clouds
in the sky what eternity really is. I understood
the everlasting secrets of the grass and the vines,
locked in the ground. I felt the meaning of
the days. Even the book on the table can’t give me
this wisdom – The Poems of Catullus? Very good!
But the seasons will change again — all books will
be written; the words will fade away, and speech
will turn sour. But what difference does it make
right now, when I am turning into one of the saddest
wonders of the world?
Cynical synergy celebrates the empty pocket and a suspicious world view. – mh