I am a boat
without wind.
You were the wind.
Was that the direction I wanted to go?
Who cares about directions
with a wind like that!

Olav H. Hauge
(1908-1994)

Where are you today

I do not know.

Eagles where passing trough God above us.

I slip myself in memories, so long since then.

On the old summits where sun comes up from the Earth,

Your sight was so blue and very high.

Legendary rumor is rising from the fir trees.

All understanding eye was the holly mountain lake.

In my inner self it’s talking even now about you

Form my eyelashes death streams are dropping out.

I should cut the grass,

I should cut the grass where you stepped.

With the denying scythe on my shoulder,

In the last sadness I am girding.

Lucian Blaga

via

Words would sleep,
if we let them,

and make no sound; they
would hear us cry the end
of isolation,
hear us dead and leave

no mark, no meaning.
They
would steal our secrets
and tell us none
of their own. So,

wordless, we must talk
of things we do not

know, touch
the earth verbatim

for music, for sound.
And
should we fingertip

each sound ungraciously,
the silences would rebel.

No doubt that art,
and we,
are nothing to

nature; who knows
if music
cares for us at all?

Variations on Genius

by James Strecker

via