I In the Mourning
And at the door of the eye
is the still voice of the land.
My father before my father
knew the uses of fire
My father before my father,
with his multiple godhead,
sat on his circular stool
after the day was done. At times even
between the rednesses of two suns,
knowing that time was not born yesterday.
The circle continues
Time will always be
in spite of minutes that know no life.
Lives change in life
At times even rot
or be trampled underfoot
as the back of a slave.
There are cycles in the circle
I may even moan my deadness
or mourn your death,
in this sterile moment asking:
Where is the life we came to live?
Time will always be
Pastpresentfuture is always now
Where then is the life we came to live?
IV Mirrors, Without Song
Do not tell me, my brother, to reach
out and touch my soul. My soul is
inside and thin
and knows your death too
Does it matter then how
often my teeth are seen
when I laugh less and less?
Morning does not wake up
with my eye out the window
moaning, or mourning,
a thing or day gone to waste
I die in the world
and live my deadness
in my head, laughing
less and less.
Do you see now
another day, like a slave,
shows its face to be nothing,
nothing but a mirror of the death of another?
When I laugh, my brother, less and less
do not tell me to reach
out and touch my soul. My
soul is inside and thin
and knows your death too.
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