Poetry in Exile

I have no candle flame
to write my stories by
no secret lover, no pleasant tree
by whose kisses, cooling shade
is life and I might rest.

Though a stranger ocean calling
and a sun of the new years world
there are no older songs alive
no mystery presenting
nor your delicate face.

Little by little the winds have gathered,
now clouds briefly whiten
- grey and dark.
Would sail away, and watch
the birds flight.
But the rocks are sharp
and treacherous the farther roads.

The adventure might still
be left within the confines
of the mind.

With happiness so near and light,
and yet we might not grasp it.
Want to see the sky castle clouds
and dreamed far away gardens.

The palm of your hand open
-outstreched towards the light.
We are gazing away, blinding
ourselves to all around.
So dull; life & suffering
petty & real joy.

A ship sailing; contradiction
and blood, a thousand symbols,
transgressions and new horizons.

Yet ever we seek the
eastern islands, ever beyond
where at the edge of the world
Paradise regained.

But hand and eyes and weary feet
are ever the same.

And a music calling to search
and within sleep
is still tangled with real.
Sweat is not out of tune,
they all still represent how
illusory what we wish regained.

It is the past that brought,
all the little stories
that subjugated will:

The pride called gold
and heavy weighing chains.
Taste the iron, remembering
how many things, all not so sweet
have been made with blood.
And stained with ashes
when we renounced the woods.

Every dream of seas
cost lives and trees.
The one cheaper
than the other,
and all in the name of the lord.
And still centuries
we have those tropical desires
however bitter
they now might taste.

When morning stars rise
and the moon is very low
I feel the new world,
is very old indeed.

My magic light is lying,
but nevertheless its serves.
Heat carries flowers
and waits for rain.
The sun will sometimes soon
rise again. With all the blood
this earth still spilling,
all the broken hearts,
I wonder why night ever comes.

The pencil served the scribe,
and the poet knew to trick it.
Lightning, flood and peace.
Beyond that plain,
that lovely village
and tempting garden
lies the spring of forgiveness.
It gives rebirth in the land
of dying and comfort
where the living stalk.

But I have digressed
from my native streams;
might wake me up.

Behind every tear
deep inside lies a dream
that a word and touch
might mend. In silence.

At the shore, night has fallen.
Hands together we watch over
the blackness of sea
and imagine there is
no distance, no time between us.

// ´tis truly farther away, than I've ever been. Old fashioned...