What becomes of the face of the sun when it starts to age?
It is like asking a tree to die. And die without
Leaving a trace of sorrow. A tree that doesn’t show
A face, or because its lack of face beats any sorrow.
Pity the living that shows so much face.
I don’t expect you to understand me.
I came from a far-flung place only children believe exists.
There sorrow is everything, too familiar to count as truth.
What is truth but of pulling one’s feet off the ground?
Is it sound to ask a tree its gender? The sun if it ever tried
Cooling its feet on a stream? A watercourse breaking
The ramparts of poetry that knows too much about what
Is human and so what a face is all about?
Come with me.
I can show you what you can’t imagine.
Just tell me everything you need to show.
A tree shall be the witness.
I have only two things to ask of you.
Bring me that tree.
Try to make it sing.
Then, as I hope to satisfy you, I shall make you cry.
I shall make you wipe your face,
Make you more capable of poetry,
Of your “full monty and the holy grail.”
In the meantime try hard not to open your eyes.
It’s “monty python” by the way.
But I can keep a secret.
(inspired by “Donnie Darko”)