Particular Moments

More Stars than There are

Tag: dreams

Mute Ecstasies of Summer

Sitting under the courtyard shade,
a block of dimmed rectangular architectural space
lays mildly cool;

Outside its precisely defined borders,
The sun seemed to have dyed everything
a bleached orange.

Waves of incessant breeze;
although felt in this unintended shelter, still carried
faint streaks of outside’s ubiquitous, gradually maturing
rolling heat. 

Once more, the summer winds carry us—
some of whom have either been much too weary,
or others having regretfully
not been weary at all—

Into an apparently constant state
of pulsating
yet nonchalant dreaming. 

 

For Our Soft Wrists and Brittle Faces

How cruelly did Youth
Dare us to dream so frivolously,
That every burger we flipped,
Every broom we pushed—
Every petty tip waged to our once
Or still hungry pockets,

Dimmed our Brilliance into
Barely containable and feigned
Smiles, veiled behind which lay
Heaps of deferred aspirations?

And are We so hypnotized to confide
In this modern, fast-forward dreaming,
That the weight of Hammer
and Chisel became too much to bear,
Too much of  a nuisance,
Unwilling burden
For our unwieldy wrists?

Or is it simply too much a shame
For our extensively kept faces?

.

Long ago, in a pre-man age
Championed by the gods and creators
Who lived under cosmic rifts and divides,

Among them, a tiny yet miraculous notion
Was suddenly conceived—
Like the cataclysm bringing forth
An all new Philosophy and Faith—

A race of thinking, civilized, even
Highly intellectual beings
Whose core conviction sang: 

“We are born to Dream,
To Work, and Sweat
Not as obligated labor,
But as Our birthright 
To keep our too often wandering
Souls Pure and Intact!”

.

We now sit in wonder,

“Who were They?
A People who proclaimed themselves
Through endless Shame
And its complementary Glory,
Mankind? ”

 

The Dying Cicadas

The Cicadas are Singing
Louder and Louder;
But no one sees them—
Invisible messengers they are,
Hiding behind leaves.

Their songs are ringing
Even more urgent now,
As their time is near—
Another conclusion of the year.

Can you hear?
In the echoing of these
Seemingly inexhaustible,
Dying Cicadas,
Distant yet vivid memories,
Of our Season
Soon-to-be-gone.

And are we, always unwary,
Startled, even a little—
To have come without a Choice,
To Seal
Another irretrievable Summer
Into just blurry dreams?

Walking Beside Her

“I find myself wondering about humanity. Their attitude to my sister’s gift is so strange. Why do they fear the sunless lands? It is as natural to die as it is to be born. But they fear her. Dread her. Feebly they attempt to placate her.

They do not love her.

Many thousands of years ago, I heard a song in a dream, a mortal song that celebrated her gift. I still remember it:

 

‘Death is before me today:

Like the recovery of a sick man,

Like going forth into a garden

After sickness.

 

Death is before me today:

Like the odor of myrrh,

Like sitting under a good sail

In a good wind…'”

 

I walk by her side, and the darkness lifts from my soul.

I walk with her, and I hear the gentle beating of mighty wings.”

 

—Neil Gaiman, Sandman: Vol. 1, Preludes and Nocturnes.