Thursday, August 25, 2011

Beyond Hope and Across the Lines.

Before birth and after death,
is there anything?,
is there One god?,
is there a highest being?
Or is there emptiness,
                               a constant fall
                                                     of hope,
                                                                  of love,
                                                                             of motherhood?
Just sin.
I sing to  my ancestors' God,
the one who gave a meaning to my childhood,
a path to my adulthood.
a shelter to my old age,
There is nothing left now.
Everything is a lie,
except the inner self.

Once there was a Light
that lighted the universe.
But now it has faded away across the lines
of blame,
of darkness,
of dispair.
Sorrow is a red water that spreads on a thirsty desert.
Sand starves in the sea of awareness.
The sea is the sure promise of life and death,
and sterility, of the disappearance of spiritual hurt.
The resurrection of the inner self turns into the promised land.
Everything is a lie,
except my corpse on the sands of the desert
of coldness,
of indifference,
of futility.
I walk the paths of  my ancestors' promised land.
And I know I mustn't stop walking.
There is nothing to expect now,
but the resurrection of the inner self.
Only my grandparents' voice is heard at night,
when the moon and the stars have turned off
and while white ghosts surround me.
But I keep on walking,
and I know I will reach the end.
Because I am not me,
my voice is not mine,
my feet are not mine.
My ancestors lead my path.
They show me the way.
Everything is a lie,
except their voice in my mind.
Everything is a lie,
but our inner self.

The Pope Benedict XVI prays in silence in the 26th World Youth Day at Cuatro Vientos Airport in Madrid in August 20 in 2011.
Picture from

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

On the Borderline. (Octavio Paz and Emily Dickinson Revisited).

Between birth and death,
is there anything?
Just thoughts,
                    just sounds,
                                       just words,
                                                           just images
at the bottom of our hearts.
Everything is a lie,
but the inner self.

Apassionatta (Mike Worrall)