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Burning the Boats to Hesperion

No reason and No rhyme

Burning the Boats to Hesperion

08
Jan10

Eumeswil (1ª Parte)

 

When I close my eyes I see a desert.

The, long, brown, infinity that stretches from the mountains to the sea.

Leaving everything in between dead, and indifferent to its embrace.

A space of immobility where movement is Wind.

Blowing.

Hard and soft....

Subtle and strong...

Northward and southward,

Hither and thither.

Striping the structure out of the desert.

The only truth the wind.

And the wind is the desert.

And the desert is ...

It.

 

 

The desert as the end of wanting.

The last mille of hope in the road to despair.

Where the Saviour goes to die.

This is the place were everything stops, and is moved by chance.

The place of the prime movement

Fate,

Chance,

Flow.

When I close my eyes I see a desert,

Beneath me, and in front of me.

In space in now, in time in here.

 

 

 

Southward on the other side of the sea,

in the other side of the ocean.

Europa’s birthplace.

My birthplace.

The desert that was then when we started.

When Europa made its first tentative steps to Itself.

A desert not as a desert but as a barren place;

A place where to be free.

In the Future,

Here,

In Europa,

The Peninsula will be a undulating vastness of naught.

Rocks and sand where once stood the cities of today,

Ruins of fountains, pools and waters mirrors,

Incomprehensible artefacts of a past best forgotten.

And,

Scurrying nimbly through the desert,

Our children’s children.

Traped in a culture too slow to move with time.

Still believing themselves Empire,

but,

now,

all made of sand.

Yesterday,

Late in the day,

Yesterday,

Long ago,

In a day dead and done,

The day before now,

Yesterday.

It’s hours frozen by time,

For it’s yesterday.

Final and frail as porcelain dolls.

These are the days that you’re given.

Existing because time is locked in yesterday.

Yesterday where knowledge goes to die.

A land of reason and language,

The last sarcophagi of living and a prison.

It’s in this tomb of being that I see the desert,

Southward and in the desert.

 

 

 

A premonition of nothing,

A call to arms

And words to the wise


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