Let’s not talk of love or chain, and things we can’t untie. The eyes, they do get soft with sorrow. And, yet, there is a kind of anticipation in the air. I have lost my years almost casually, and you know, just before that awkward moment, I have not had any regret for being myself!
It’s Christmas. The moss-stained and glum stones of Park Street cemetery get greeted by a gust of foreign wind. Do the dead have their country? Or, slightly twisting the words of a self-searching Irishman, must we say, “There’s no country for dead men”! The queer implication of identity, related to a certain domain, has always been an enigma for us, the living often share their problems with the men under their feet. Even when the wired sense of identity transmits itself into reality, the cracked looking-glass is fairly visible inside the fervour of symmetry. So much for the Lord, the Son and the Holy Ghost.
I will not look for another as I wander in my time, walk me to a corner, and we will hunt down the secrets of this life, and may be of this death. Together.
It’s Christmas. The moss-stained and glum stones of Park Street cemetery get greeted by a gust of foreign wind. Do the dead have their country? Or, slightly twisting the words of a self-searching Irishman, must we say, “There’s no country for dead men”! The queer implication of identity, related to a certain domain, has always been an enigma for us, the living often share their problems with the men under their feet. Even when the wired sense of identity transmits itself into reality, the cracked looking-glass is fairly visible inside the fervour of symmetry. So much for the Lord, the Son and the Holy Ghost.
I will not look for another as I wander in my time, walk me to a corner, and we will hunt down the secrets of this life, and may be of this death. Together.
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