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JUST JUST IRON
The lone house smouldering at night would
be heard better
But I'm running with an axe and chopping the maple tree
To
build a base.
It's calmer now. Thick dried panoramas of
greyed wooden frames around and no doors. You can get in here through the roof
with tied ropes. Hard-pressed clay floor, the ceiling - always different sky.
In the darkest corner of the base there is
a box obstructed with stone. It is to store things you want to forget. To make
inaudible, invisible, absent. A prison or a little cage for everything what
would disturb the peace that's being created here only with their hanging on
these walls minted with nails.
I hear how the wood creaks when the metal
cuts its body. Such music constantly sounds here. Like a separated fresh drop
of water on a leaf, which you tried to observe closely. Flying / falling birds.
The red meadows full of young poppies. They always remind an unborn baby,
poisoned with opium. Speech. The time you stroke a cat's fur before storm. Like
the dreams about seas that we dreamt together on the windy mountain. Like
crooning again with insomnia the houses built on snow. From barely audible cry
storms born at night while powdery sand picks the full moon. But you take a
handful of nails and strike them, imprinting everything into these boundless
yantras.
JUST JUST WOOD
Sometimes the rain starts. Then you observe
how swelling walls press the iron spikes stronger and stronger. Rings are
filled with viscous drops, sparkles from the the water that is getting soaked.
While the air is sliding slowly between the logs. Silently. Mutely. Like
lulling a humming mosaic from matured foreboding. Fills with the presence of
fog. Ice moss. An integral silent shrine. The inner hut.
The water drips through iron nails so
The
hangers for those who stay still
Sinking as the echoes of longing
Skeldos.
Either grass or wind will go on burning.
And the smoke of illusion about this new Arkaim will be squeezed by the same
stone guardian. And the surfaces will sound as if the revived branches of trees
would be crushing a womb. With extruded slivers. Short breath. You step already
over the cemetery of iron. And only the echo from the maple cracks will whisper
straight into your ear that
Of all, what you've tried to forget, will
remain imprints.
Of all, what you've been for, - imprints.
Of all, what you've tried to forget, will
remain imprints.
Of all, what you've been for, - imprints.
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A crack of maple is like a beginning... (sls.l)
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