Mist obscures our holy hill again this late November day.
I like to think of walking in the cloud invisibly.
I am arrived at such a pitch of felicity,
When all that I want to say has already been said;
Mist obscures our holy hill again this late November day.
I like to think of walking in the cloud invisibly.
I am arrived at such a pitch of felicity,
When all that I want to say has already been said;
Not as I would have chosen to say this time,
But in words approximate to my haze.
Clouds in a grey-blue expanse above my head
Fuse and diffuse, refusing to fit into
Categories or slots and frames of reference.
We too are clouds, deforming, reforming
Into classes analysed by forerunners,
Who gave names to ever-morphing images,
Which will not retain distinct taxonomy
And remain unique identities.
Maybe we reach the end of the road in fog.
There's nothing beyond what we perceive, and yet,
It is given to us to imagine beyond our sight,
Beyond the blinding Sun and the dark night.
Not as I would have chosen to say this time,
But in words approximate to my haze.
Clouds in a grey-blue expanse above my head
Fuse and diffuse, refusing to fit into
Categories or slots and frames of reference.
We too are clouds, deforming, reforming
Into classes analysed by forerunners,
Who gave names to ever-morphing images,
Which will not retain distinct taxonomy
And remain unique identities.
Maybe we reach the end of the road in fog.
There's nothing beyond what we perceive, and yet,
It is given to us to imagine beyond our sight,
Beyond the blinding Sun and the dark night.
We may reach the end of the road in fog.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem