Incognito

There is no vision, only blinding light.

It’s not after all

A mechanical matter

Of cognitive development;

Not the change of a squeal

To a deep drawl;

Not the celebration of one’s eighteenth birthday;

Not the switching on of a lamp …

Passive fingers catch what light

Drops now and then –

Then the window is shut.

The sun spreads its wings wide,

And the window opens –

The earth receives the sun,

The groove the breeze,

The ocean the flood.

It’s not one of those diurnal courses

Counting which we grow …

The pigeon flew by the spell,

Spun crazy fancies, weaved

Dreams of hilarity and tears,

As by the magic wand.

Fell.

Now the magician has gone.

There is no vision, only blinding light.

In the room there’s scope

For shuffles and reshuffles of furniture,

Entries and departure –

There’s space for everyone.

The moment of perfection

Has passed,

For action dramatic too

Should have its share;

Only the sight of blood nauseates;

Truth and beauty are different,

So is heroism –

Why kill?

Perhaps it’s a game.

Sport is on the chart, shoot.

More blood will be cooked,

It’s the hit and try method,

Not a splash of water on the fire of youth.

There’s heat in the veins,

Balls too;

One will surely hit the spot.

Let there be blinding light,

Let perfection be passed,

Let the window open wide,

Let the cooing pigeons fly.