In the disquiet of evening,
From twilight’s lovely circling fire,
All lives became lost in translation.
From this little time of now –
Praised for their work,
Artists only continue to fail.
It was a premonition that everything had been completed.
It was a sense that we had not endured –
It was all personalities separating to one.
Seeing things as they are,
There was a space –
A little larger than the universe
That could only be filled with a calm silence of our words:
Memories without sequence.
Perception without a perceiver.
In a cappella voices,
A dark matter of past, future, and present,
Lead to a single point of view:
Painting us to invisibility
Calm, vacuous – free.
Hiding in the open,
We filled an old written history
In solitary lives of the many and the few –
A returning calendar of youth and old age merged
Painted in weathered images of grey & ivory –
An hour we could only remember to forget.
Here, from a returning end of days,
We watched a lighthouse completing cycles of diminishing brightness –
A beautiful emptiness along the darkened coast.
It was an epitaph and preface.
It was a release from expectations,
And a sense of freedom to no longer be needed here.
Dreams will come without a mortal coil.
It will be a moment between the sad café of the dead
And bright gardens of the living.
In the disquiet of evening.
There were now a few faint stars – like distant towns out on the horizon,
And we became adorned with a glow in garlands for the sacrifice –
Waiting for the beginning –
Never able to capture exactly who we were.
It was this little time of now –
It was a premonition of our multiple souls –
It was a destiny and desire to be forgotten,
Lost in translation
From twilight’s lovely circling fire.