Sunday, October 14, 2012


Kabir put a thorn in my heaven, and now the elves will remove it.
The grief of living has drenched our conversation.
The laziness of language beats in my breast. I am troubled
like inventors at rest. I see the dots on the other side of the dark
movie screen of our lives. Only part of the movie screen is bright
like a robin. I am already good at endings like sunsets.
My presence behind the screen lightens the acres of dots.
In their gloominess is their fertility.
I have inherited some of the gloom of the elves.
The stronger grief of the elves has drenched the movie
of my character. I close my eyes and make him dark like a crow.
Of course, the elves are older than the dots,
and they are skilled at working with the dots.
Kabir the Crow used to fly about the forgotten neighborhood
where the elves originated. Elven sunsets lasted the equivalent
of two days. The blood of the first age was thick.
The elves made many movies in the greenness of their thorns.
They created characters that were drenched with the grief
and happiness of the first age. The old movie screens
were in the boughs and meadows of the forest domain.
They floated just out of reach of reality's pages.
The screen was visible to men who temporarily forgot
their mortality.
Men were sometimes seen in the field of the Elves.
The race of man wandered with their weapons until they heard
danger was no more in the soft song of the land.

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