I don't know if we're in the beginning or in the final stage.
-- Tomas Tranströmer
Rain is falling through the roof.
And all that prospered under the sun,
the books that opened in the morning
and closed at night, and all day
turned their pages to the light;
the sketches of boats and strong forearms
and clever faces, and of fields
and barns, and of a bowl of eggs,
and lying across the piano
the silver stick of a flute; everything
invented and imagined,
everything whispered and sung,
all silenced by cold rain.
The sky is the color of gravestones.
The rain tastes like salt, and rises
in the streets like a ruinous tide.
We spoke of millions, of billions of years.
We talked and talked.
Then a drop of rain fell
into the sound hole of the guitar, another
onto the unmade bed. And after us,
the rain will cease or it will go on falling,
even upon itself.
That opening by Transtromer is so true. Humans have completely changed the game. We are so close to many great breakthroughs that could go either way.
ReplyDeleteThis poem is my type of hippie jam fest. Life is a book. Discussions of time and eternity. Probably a decent amount of philosophy.
Most people would dread having roof problems. But I see easy living. I love how the narrator isn't too bothered. In fact the she is probably more concerned with the guitar.