Αναρτήσεις
Third step: minor third
Day after day it is winter still. The mud is cold,
cracks with the steps. Behind each heavy leaf there is
yet another one. The trudge is not a test
it is the only way.
"I want to tell you everything," the hermit said,
"I want to talk until you learn
my heart by heart."
Day after day it is winter still. The air is glass,
shatters when touched. The trees appear like waves
that froze in time. This forest has no path,
this valley is too deep for light to reach.
The hanged man, his rope a rosary, his turn
to pray. "There is in me, amidst it all, something holy.
But it is impossible to find in the dark.
Look for it in my blood, please, god."
Day after day it is winter still. The sun is far,
the nights long, the streams trapped in ice.
There is enough savagery in the world.
The first little saffron shoots came through the snow,
tore through it like spears and on its corpse
they'll bloom. "You need no light. This is an altar
where you'll place your offering. Love is loss.
It is pilgrimage." Thus spoke god.
In impenetrable gloom the disciples
kneeled under the burden. The altar creaked.
Minor third, looking down
going up, losing hope and finding it.
