How We Were Born Again
© Surazeus
2018 08 28
The only thing on Earth that ever lasts
beyond all turnings of the ocean tide
and blooming of the trees from rugged hills,
where flocks of animals and humans swarm
across the endless centuries of birth,
is sunlight glowing on words in old books.
So many generations of hot souls
flare into bodies from the lust of hope
and glow across the landscape of our towns
who leave behind empty buildings and poems
that I can linger for one hundred years
and not read half the songs of their sad hearts.
The millions of people in blood-hot bodies,
who swarmed vast cities of our teeming land
with every generation long passed on,
left behind words they wrote on sheets of paper
that swirl around me like leaves in wild wind
whispering lost secrets of their aching hearts.
Who can repeat songs of their beating hearts
that echo still in restless waves of time
to ring in cosmic choir of silenced hopes
when all the spirits of the dead appear
in brief illumination of sunlight
flashing on their words still clear in old books?
I know those thoughts preserved in their old poems
for they revive themselves in my brain cells
to flash brighter than holiday fireworks
across our boundless sky of empty hope,
illuminating space between our hearts
so I can sing again the dreams they lost.
If I spend all day in library hall,
reading poems printed in old dusty books,
among the coffins of forgotten dreams,
I may become the twisted roots of trees
that curl down far beyond blank silent walls
to devour iron-flamed core of our world.
Five hundred generations of our souls,
sprouting reborn from hearts of lusting parents,
swarm along rivers of this fragile globe
in restless waves of hunger to create
paradise of fruit trees where we can play
free from care, and sing stories of our journey.
The stories of their lives they leave behind
lie silent and forgotten in old books
as text of letters printed on flat sheets
till our eyes conjure ghosts of their bright souls
to replay their struggles in waking dreams
so we recall how we were born again.
© Surazeus
2018 08 28
The only thing on Earth that ever lasts
beyond all turnings of the ocean tide
and blooming of the trees from rugged hills,
where flocks of animals and humans swarm
across the endless centuries of birth,
is sunlight glowing on words in old books.
So many generations of hot souls
flare into bodies from the lust of hope
and glow across the landscape of our towns
who leave behind empty buildings and poems
that I can linger for one hundred years
and not read half the songs of their sad hearts.
The millions of people in blood-hot bodies,
who swarmed vast cities of our teeming land
with every generation long passed on,
left behind words they wrote on sheets of paper
that swirl around me like leaves in wild wind
whispering lost secrets of their aching hearts.
Who can repeat songs of their beating hearts
that echo still in restless waves of time
to ring in cosmic choir of silenced hopes
when all the spirits of the dead appear
in brief illumination of sunlight
flashing on their words still clear in old books?
I know those thoughts preserved in their old poems
for they revive themselves in my brain cells
to flash brighter than holiday fireworks
across our boundless sky of empty hope,
illuminating space between our hearts
so I can sing again the dreams they lost.
If I spend all day in library hall,
reading poems printed in old dusty books,
among the coffins of forgotten dreams,
I may become the twisted roots of trees
that curl down far beyond blank silent walls
to devour iron-flamed core of our world.
Five hundred generations of our souls,
sprouting reborn from hearts of lusting parents,
swarm along rivers of this fragile globe
in restless waves of hunger to create
paradise of fruit trees where we can play
free from care, and sing stories of our journey.
The stories of their lives they leave behind
lie silent and forgotten in old books
as text of letters printed on flat sheets
till our eyes conjure ghosts of their bright souls
to replay their struggles in waking dreams
so we recall how we were born again.
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