High Solitude

Two poems, two eras. What has changed in fifty years? Very little indeed.

Paths

(1969)

1
The dew of the dawn
Sparkles in the sun
Along the steep slopes
Near the frozen springs
Towards the golden mountains
Dripping honeydrops
In such solitude
Nothing cheers you up

Who held you
However
The ascending path
Mists up in the clouds

2
After the freezing heights
The cold of the tall peaks
On earth and ashes
The hard part is over
Heat haze from the ground
Stuck you to the hill
Just let you go down, now
Just let you slide

Fear has come again
How ?
The path stretches on
Up to the unknown plain

3
Since so many weeks
Maybe so many years
From mountain to mountain
From hill to valley
A sad wind blows you out
And send you for a walk
Season after season
You have to go on

There is no one yet
Here
On the hardened path
Just your ringing step

4
Evergreen is the earth
Overfool is the way
Crying with willow-trees
Going through the fumes
The plain is wide open now
The wind’s everywhere you go
Funny thing’s crossing your mind
The plain is closed behind

Life goes on and on
Sweet
The path is waiting for
The weight of your bare feet

 

 

High solitude

(2019)

On the trails of high solitude
On the paths alongside the infinite
On the slopes of great uncertainty
Don’t you know that the storm is over?

You have not lacked hunger or food
You won or lost nothing at all
You chose neither faith nor inconstancy
On your journey far from everywhere

Handsome knight of tales and legends
Valiant fighter faithful companion
From the bottom of the sea to the peaks of the Andes
While we both lose we win

On the future swear to remain worthy
Of donations gotten and lessons given
Future time is read between the lines
We will be prophets and damned

Who keeps us from breaking the shackles
To overthrow the throne of tyrants?
Who keeps us from behaving bravely
Caressing a sexy face?

We were naked companions in misery
We had nothing but dawn at our knees
Warriors from the ends of the earth
We have it all  :  Heaven is with us

 

In nature’s infinite book of secrecy, a little I can read.
William Shakespeare