Sing, o muse

The wooden horse, the burning city, the exile, the wanderings, the hope of arrival, the unexpected detours, the illusion of arrival, the excitement of adventure, the despondency of the open sea, the desire for new shores, the resilience in fighting, the loss of loved ones, the long sleep, the blessing of telling the story from the comfort of a symposium, the open-endedness of it all, the vanishing memory of misfortune, the lived life, the patient wait.

We sing and we cry, we fight and we sleep, we hope and we despair. Nothing ever gets lost, everything finds its place on the map, the map helping us navigate the high seas, the sail hoisted up, in the end there is no end, the Earth is round and so are we, the circling of the sun above the ruined landscape, the hope of new beginnings shimmering in the east.

The poet seeks a new voice, but cannot find it, it’s all been said, it’s all been offered on a silver plate in a multitude of voices, each trying their hand at a new game, but the game is never new.

The lines are broken and so are we. Giacometti figures dancing on a wire stretching out from one city to another, the brouhaha below sending vibrations up above, the love which moves that sun the stars and the rocks, gravity has no claim on those whose hope keeps them afloat with the desire for anything new, really anything, as if the Earth stopped for a moment to allow us to remeasure it and remaster the main track.

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