(Inspired by paintings by C. Douglas and some wonderfully weird conversations with my ‘crazy’ friends.)
I’m the moth drawn to the light
that burns as it heals.
Or maybe I’m the flame,
dreaming of wings.
Am I the butterfly
yearning to become a poet,
or the poet
becoming a butterfly?
Between the two there is no fence,
only the longing
that keeps the wings alive.
And the visible
becomes invisible.
Then a face appears across the silence,
and for a moment
the far-off light
seems to take a human form…
Ethereal, yet real.
Does love have a destination?
The question echoes
into infinity.
We searched for the light beyond us,
never seeing the walls within
that kept us from it.
The beloved is only the shadow
cast upon the water.
And beneath it, the unseen ocean,
over which the mystic moves in silence,
lost in the music
of his own becoming.
From his wounds emerges the light,
and the light heals my wounds.
Illusion?
Then what is real?
Perhaps only this:
something in us is travelling
without a body, without a road,
returning to the eternal green,
where the butterfly and the poet disappear,
and the wing goes on flying through light.
