peter fonnesbech


The Hour Of The Soul - Poem by peter fonnesbech

Fellow men and travelers
swept into the routines of dailylife
laboriously dragging on imaginary charges
from the cemented tyranny from a fixed conception of reality
where man is the slave and statist
incarnated in the shadows of the countless
preparedness of fear

the misery never aired in a gentle space,
just surviving with outer mines and characteristics
whose expression rarely reveals an inherent image of beauty, meaning or peace.
.

You with suitcases standing in shiny airports,
anxiously leaning forward
on the way to the sunny shores
the exhausted play of the senses, bowl of freedom,
and the escape in the forfeiture,

who taught you to travel!

Countless are secondary roads crossing the road.

The road itself invisible, carved up like a ship's hull.

The present left castrated by linear intentions,
which anxiety is not never filled,
and the outcome compulsively repeated constantly
into enlarged movements until
the self-destruction is incomprehensible.

and suddenly interrupted by his own annihilation.

The light faded away without the inclination to live,

the potencial feast of the miracles held
in the crack facing a dubious opening,

that does not know and have never known anything else
than its own gambling,

where the interruption always covers the vulnerability
and wipes out the silence before the uncertainty calls
unresolved sorrows and joys forward
from unknown hidden places
, encapsulated by the guardians of the postponement.

Somewhere in the darkness glows a hidden star waiting
for a light, the inpredictable grace that could,
would, will free radiance, again, sometime in the future.

All kinds of anguish breathless detained in this one word, again.
So everything is excused, justified, and once again archived, yet again.

Once, or just once before the soft sentence of a mercyfull death.

Circuit gracious reward for the trust,
which in spite of everything would leave the planet
with gratitude compassionate smile in the soreness of trembling pale lips,
surrounded by peace and blessings of eternity,
before leaving for the next destination.
In the bitterness is no soft sentence
only echo of the echo of the echo
of the shrilling nightmares
of civilization

that goes far beyond the edge of any piece of white paper.

After the loss of the first excited being and its sensual delight
that is gradually lost in the growing I's puzzled meeting
and the forced establishment in a reality
where the baseline and the visible alternatives are lacking
for without any abillity to renounce the designated roads
through the incomprehensible cuttings from template to template,
assisted by the adaptation, the smiling inquisition on the way to.........

The soul is long gone into exile.
Occasionally send it incomprehensible postcard to the address further up
to the person, living a daily life which is parceled into precision,
counted time with the senses and sensitivity harness placed under
voluntary rape in rivalry of every day life,

where millions are called, but none are selected
daily to sit in vertical coffins, where reality is further conquered,
mapped, controlled and posted into numbers of the lifeless conditions,
and the long rows of alternating signs and symbols occupy most of the attention.

The funds and their boundless increase itself has turned into the target,
regardless of the cost and what once seemed like the goal.

Nature pulls no longer breath as before, the sea spiting with rotten fish,
the desert spread its sand, and even the sun is starting to sting.

The conquest continues blindly
accompanied by spirit of the occupation
led by the media priesthood.

One moment tells adult schoolboys faces
about the ​​hop and quantum leap of monetary values,
the next movement are tempel hores serving plays and the kisses of death,
always willing to propose to apply the stagnant time
the one mercy killing after another, offering an arrows of countless entertainment
created for the sake of all the indispensable
for you, me, the indispensable fault
and where the strange mating dance of cynicism and sentimentalisme
day after day, night after night,

so attention never discovers its own unique quality.

They do not know our real names although they always pretend to
when they call us the consumers, the customers, the clients or the voters. the courted,
seduced and consumed, sods for the mass grave way of life prepares for itself,
because it would not listen, feel and turn back.

Because there is so little love, and the one theres is,
is not furious enough yet.

Therefore, this language will mobilize, issued by the strongest necessity
carved into the empty spaces of the words and letters to create platforms
in a landscape with shadowy valleys and new views on its highest peaks,
from which the horizon is added new views and release of time.

Silence is blessed in the protected spaces
from where the time can separated from the forces of the occupation
so the soul can again conceive a new spiritual delight.

Give the abstractions what is theirs, but man himself.
The paradox of the conquest is never larger than the prevailing madness,
regardless of sorrow, pain, self hatred, guilt and all the other content of countless shadows.

The existence alone have always the eligibility without questions.
Existence is the way, the tool and the luggage.

Throughout the unpredictability quivers the endless longing pangs
coming slowly out of the narrow enclosure of the maze on it's the way out
to restore peace and space to excrete the accumulated pain stiffened screams on the difficult path out of existence cup.

Where the thunder emphasizes the sharp glint
throws wink of template the treason
if cutting decomposition slide at sea,
so the sorrow can settle his soak in the wells of wisdom,
and let fear alone drag to hell,

dissolving its preparedness
and discover the original overgrown paths
and awake the deepest joy,

starting this new journey, reborn and self-renewing
in constant amazement listening to the hour of the soul.

Always present, older than eternity and fresher than tomorrow
clearest and purest at its source from snow of the mountains
and the solitude of the desert.

Never can this story tell exhaustive enough about himself,
the urge to tell is grandiose and understatement always its terms.
Countless are the stories and ineffable promises in the hope and desire
that no life should be lived in vain.

Topic(s) of this poem: perspective

Form: Lyric


Poet's Notes about The Poem

From the personal to the collective and so forth.

Comments about The Hour Of The Soul by peter fonnesbech

There is no comment submitted by members..



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags


Poem Submitted: Friday, December 11, 2015



[Report Error]