sit by, around, a corner table.
Life at pause they ease their breath,
gather to look at what was
and is no more.
The past to see tomorrow;
perhaps to change course
so intently locked for years
on railroad tracks
rolling forward to no change
in life, emotion and death.
But for all its momentum
nothing remains nothing,
and maybe hope to leave
the ride is not misgiven
A small shower left
gleaming spots for
the sun to drown in dust.
One raises his cup to say:
What we have is fear and its comfort,
what we could have
is uncertainty and its joy.
A few words so simple
and all lies in the open.
Tea spilled a symbol
of personal habits.
-Of no consequence
for the real question revealed.
Cowardice and reason
with all their minions
and promises of years to come.
Or the courage and folly
to take up the doomed-to-fail
journey in search of paradise.
That with luck will be
one hell of an adventure.
Is that not life.
Another declares, noon is late enough
to change from coffee to wine
(and says) passions surely wins.
Other daily customs
one sips his beer,
this day no different.
But this claimed;
there is a tension in the air,
the coffee-round of workday routine
may finally pull
the emergency break
and get out and moving
as never before.
A sober one, perhaps not so
in the mind, though I disagree,
takes a glass of water
and takes a small sip:
We may admit we are happy
or just take a step
to learn to walk.
This eternity question
will surely resolve itself in waiting
in the course of years.
Its answer is all too plain.
We intend to see it tomorrow.
But if we cannot act today,
yes maybe we could tomorrow.
One needs blind faith
to believe it will be so.
He throws the glass of water
spills it on the table:
My self will no longer falter,
I draw my line today.
Alone it may be cold
and failure is so sure,
that it will never be.
The first step will change our eyes
to see and not to see.
Our accomplishments are small
and attain no praise,
but the way we try
and how we walk
will give us warmth
that we never apreciated before.
Evening falls, cups lie empty,
someone counts the tip.
And the spectator-by-chance
wonders if tomorrow
a chair,perhaps two
or the bench by the painting
will not be seated.
If somewhere the morning
opens a path
that does not lead or last,
but lives in birdsong
and a hearty laugh.
Viikki,
23.04.2007
23.04.2007
// And I'd be the one with the Hoegaarden, who does nothing. But at least this came after some thing.
