A Winged Victory For The Sullen – Requiem For The Static King Part One (Official Video) It is an illusion that we were ever alive, Lived in the houses of mothers, arranged ourselves By our own motions in a freedom of air. Regard the freedom of seventy years ago. It is no longer air. The houses still stand, Though they are rigid in rigid emptiness. Even our shadows, their shadows, no longer remain. The lives these lived in the mind are at an end. They never were…..The sounds of the guitar Were not and are not. Absurd. The words spoken Were not and are not. It is not to be believed. The meeting at noon at the edge of the field seems like An invention, an embrace between one desperate clod And another in fantastic consciousness, In a queer assertion of humanity: A theorem proposed between the two-- Two figures in a nature of the sun, In the suns design of its own happiness, As if nothingness contained a metier, A vital assumption, an impermanence In its permanent cold, an illusion so desired That the green leaves came and covered the high rock, That the lilacs came and bloomed, like a blindness cleaned, Exclaiming bright sight, as it was satisfied, In a birth of sight. The blooming and the musk Were being alive, an incessant being alive, A particular of being, that gross universe. Wallace Stevens.
Posted on: Tue, 13 Jan 2015 17:56:56 +0000
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