Ars Moriendi

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As we head for the exits

 

Each home, a neighbourhood,
Of those illuminate
and those in stone.
You should be converse with both.
This is how to die
I´ve been told:
Live life and pass on
in natural flow
the stories of what is near you;

A time when…
the waving lantern of the smuggler´s co-conspiritors:
whiskey
(lying, of course), 
((belongs in here too))
but also their swag 
of revolutionary appropriations;
The brotherly handshake in bronze,
The many livre tournois,
The hidden key.

A place where…
closed minds were locked away
In their closed churches:
An outcrop
Of contradiction
More enduring than their dust
Is the ground beneath their knees.

A modern tale of...
the nimble carrying of a sleeping child;
Over the long stretch
Of fallen boulders
That you stumble and gasp at
Wearing your reading glasses
Getting to know, and know slowly, 
you urge yourself,
To see that what is fallen
Must find it´s rest eventually.

Such stories have been told
When fires spit, when winter grips
To heat and make ice a river
of the cold ignorance
Of those who do not want to know
Or want to know
That ice can burn too.

And some stories have not been told
lost behind frozen lips
and burn away
become detached
like quantum floes.

 

Copyright 2016   Derek O´Rourke

 

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