This time about time

This time about time

It is hard to believe how the saints do it,

that is, sinners before we become ourselves.

After the will, after the tears, after the sadness, after the joy,

we may differ in our choice, we are one in its lack,

and when the stream doesn’t feed us, the river sweeps us away,

for justice under the anthill of words.

All imagined – for no one.

Behind the house the moon cracked in a puddle;

it's magic casting a spell.

And as we wake up a second before ourselves,

entangled in mankind, untangled from its mind,

the eyes sink at the state of it all;

an ocean of stars... all alright.

Strange, but not impossible, is all

without a thought, you feel it breathe.

So despite the tearing in the belly of the night

and against the clocks and those pointing hands,

let yourself get lost like Indian summer,

since geese are closer to life, flying in the dreams of true nature.

There, freedom leaves traces – feathers upon the path.

In the forest, nudity with affection for the soul

and a lake lined with a mirror and two full moons.

Lake for walking and a map of stars,

eternity, the thing is, is all at once.

So you don't have to hurry because you are,

just close your eyes -

for one whole lifetime out of infinitely many.

©Szweda

Castlerock 2019

karma

karma

as we dream like this and the stars still hang on windows

at the bottom of silence the world turns

to the beginning of beginnings - the elder said

to the rebirth of Venus - just like that

to finding home for anybody lost

to finding light for anybody craving

to finding peace for anybody broken

to this life which began from the end

like a drop from the gutter

and a destiny that fits in the frame

this is it!

a cat may tell you more than a Plato

again and again until there is silence

©Szweda

Castlerock 2020

twelve times

Twelve times

To the end whatever you have

counted from the beginning.

Questions for spirits, though you probably know too much,

put in motion with a wheel of time.

The clock rusted, though you probably don’t know;

son, daughter - to the silence not of this world, come back

to the hallway with immortal folklore,

to the kitchen with a cat away from modernity,

sleeping upon the stove propelled with birch.

Stars wanting nothing - the maps.

Roads beating with life from head to toes,

so sacred, it is hard not to kneel.

However possible, reach out

through the viscose of hurry

for a string of breath,

and play, play, play until it bursts.

Because all is dreamed to us besides the love,

like Taurus in Uranus.

©Szweda

Castlerock 2019