Quantum Norton
I tread over the dust.
The moon drops onto the earth
drawing the waves and the wind.
The levanter pulls its tales,
a whispering cloak for the water.
These stories cannot be spoken, cannot be heard,
they may only be known.
Known by those that quiet their minds
Silent.
Long enough to feel their chatter, to see through a mist.
the other.
The other who stands on a shadowed shore
expanding with the sounds of the sand drinking the sea.
The other on a peninsula of calm
eyes gazing across miles.
Boundaries shiver, insubstantial in this place.
I reach the sea's edge.
Streams of light lick over and.
I am home.
Far from that place. Far from those faces. Those things.
Yet.
I am home.
It cannot endure, it is merely a reflection but,
in one pure, painful second.
I am home.
But this home, does not belong to me.
Not mine.
Not Yet.
II
And turning from the fading sounds of windy footsteps
the other, another
drinks down a second of pure, painful knowledge,
savouring it's aftertaste before it evaporates
in reality's heated breath.
Never to have existed.
And walking across the lazy earth,
the dry stretching earth, yawning it's limbs across the years.
The other, another rips strips across the walking moments of a
waking eternity.
You can never be whole, until you are broken.
Never be one until you lie, a fleck,
a grain on the skin
of the endless,
cleft of eternity.
Sinking
into the earth.
Sinking
with the weight of a drift of seconds
that accumulate
as a deep drift of leaden snow.
And the galgos steps across the paper strewn stone.
They all step.
Down into the city.
Down into the shrinking world.
Copyright 2004 Briony Dennis
Computer Graphics Laboratory,
Department of Information Science,
University of Tokyo