A Meed

(Inspired by an unknown poet) 


Let me keep on describing things

to be sure they once happened

for it would be silenced soon

surrendered by memory, failing in History.


The way it all went is the only way

to tell it with every detail

without the slightest fingerprint of fiction

about the beautiful

traces still in my poetic memory,

in my poetic existence.


There are silent stories behind every window

but the window of the soul sees

the farthest,

the furthest.

My own windows are wide

opened when I been there. Only I have in mine

closet closed it.

Little conviction.

Big understanding.


It is it I hide in my closet long time ago

hardly I forget to remember.


Still pinching my glowing cheeks to be

certain I am fully awake,

full consciousness

marking out the traces with delight

when it all happened

where it all happened

why it all happened

how it all happened.


I am the only who

who happened at all.

Other eyes might tell it

different but it is my eyes.

It is my eyes.


It is more of a fish,

a fish swimming in the pond

near your fishing rod, near your bait.

Whistling a happy song, you bow

down to look if there is something,

something tugging you, tugging your bait.

Alarmed, you tried to get in control of it,

to hold it on, tightly

gripping on the handle of the fishing rod.

The next minute, it is all gone

into the silent pond, without a trace

and you try and you fail

to catch the moment gone,

the adventure it unfolds before your eyes,

the thrill to catch something,

the fish fighting for its life

gone with the wind, even before you remember

you are a hermit, once more.


It is in front of you but you are not in front of it.

Just like that.




First published in Red Ochre Literature

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