Chapter 6 6

this power beats on the branch of the tree and plant sap also dwell in poetry but it's calm there this force circles in kisses and longing also lie in poetry though it is silent this power grows in napoleon's dream And ordered him to conquer Russia and ice This power also resides in poetry But extremely quiet. Because you are the only one who died, I am sure we will meet again. You will still be nine years old, like on the hills The last time I saw you. One late August afternoon, mature, transparent, The leaves of the cherry tree are undisturbed, The grass is silent.

Gooseberries, always black, burst on the tongue, their sweet keep spring, summer, and the memory of the storm, and Early morning, and the flight of a skylark. run ahead of us, laughing, you can feel our kindness Follow you easily Like the breath of a sleeper. You disappeared in the woods, In the shadow of the fir tree.night comes, It was chilly, in the green shadows of the fir trees. We stand in the last rays of the sun, We shouted quietly, "Where are you?" How close we were to each other, There is only the sleepy bird between us Whistling, arched limbs when entwined.

slowly creeping in at night Its corridors and tunnels. Night passed day. How unattainable is life, it is only in memory, In the void, revealing its feature.What a mature, tumultuous afternoon unattainable, the leaves follow the sap Bloom; swollen fruit, through the street The woman on the other side dragged and rustled silks, and school-leaving boys Shout out loud, out of reach.the most concise Apples, round and unpredictable. Canopy in warm air swaying.The mountains in the distance are hard to reach. Rainbows are unpredictable.huge cloud cliff Flowing slowly across the sky.that luxury

An unattainable afternoon.my life, Flying, unattainable, free. We know we are not allowed to use your name. We know you are unspeakable, anemic, fragile, like a child Suspicious of mysterious injuries. We know you're not allowed to live in the music of the moment Or in the trees at sunset. We know - or at least we've been told - You don't exist anywhere. But we still keep listening to your tired voice —in an echo, a complaint, in the Antigone's letters from the Greek desert. Not only to give you the one and only - at the moment you are sleeping In a cloud of wool spinning dreams - the poems I have written.

To you victorious, smiling, lovely, And to you too, vanquished and subjugated, (though I'll never understand Who can beat you! ) Here I am, writing song after song Poetry of deeply doubting and disturbing minds. As if wishing that one day - like a turtle - via Flawed Text and imagine, to reach the place you've been so longing for, There, the lightning of life carries you.