Thursday, October 1, 2009

Ubi sunt

Where is the stone staircase, where are the morning glories that covered the wall? Where is the white cat that slept beneath the porch? Where are the birds that nested in the olive tree? Where is the golden light that shimmered in the tall grass, where is the little smile that danced across your lips one summer day when you thought no one was looking?

4 comments:

runnerfrog said...

Where can the centuries be, where the dream
of swords the Tartars clashed,
where the stout walls they tumbled,
where the Tree of Adam and the other Trunk?
The present is alone. Memory
establishes time anew. Succession and deceit
is the routine of the clock. The year
is no less useless then the useless tale.
Between dawn and night there is an abyss
of agonies, of splendors, of cares;
the face that sees itself in the spent
mirrors of the night is not the same.
The flight today is tenuous and is eternal;
do not expect another Heaven, nor another Hell.

Tai said...

Beautiful. And very ubi sunt. One has to guard against reading too much of this sort of thing, it is so powerful.

runnerfrog said...

Even with a giant than-then typo. I'm an amphibious criminal.

Tai said...

Ambiguous, too.