Time’s Forgery of Space

As usual, it goes with the noise carrying the sweat of a crowd too impossible to mistake for angels in a cemetery, the crispness of idle talk which needs this space to become more than what they are, entrapped in the incalculable.

But where it palpitates, there it has never seen action, the onrush of time into space.

Hasn’t anyone heard of it yet? Not long ago ‘Death is beyond experience.’ A false limit whose empty lines spoke only of its quiet power, of the possible being a limit only to calculability.

But where the dead are and where no one else is, curiously said this even goes to them, alive in the stillness of nowhere, calculability gives time its unmistakable context.

Yet the story went on, defying the dead in their own in-crowding, beehive-ing suspicion.

Time is incalculable.


We are all entrapped in it, each for a living soul, the dead takes a life in living memory:

in space, a tomb, in the air, all the same enclosed in a topology

where time’s the reckoning frame, the dead  falls into place.

Night watchers  can look up in the sky as children read a few lines from Heidegger. It will be the same stillness.



Another stillness. Another inventoried time

where time sinks under its sole pretext–melancholia

a new earth. A new melancholia.

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