Saturday, February 19, 2011
The past might well be another country
But the future has no map.
All we have to unravel its righteous riddle
Are answers to questions we once asked
In some previous steady state of mind
That has long become mere mist and dismal drizzle.
Still we set our faces to some Jerusalem
And travel on towards its wailing wall
Where we expect our sea of reeds to part.
We push on as if we were immortal
Eyes straight ahead and blinkered blind
To betrayals that can truly break our heart.
At some point the end rises up to claim
All of our friendly facts and fond imaginings
Before we can mend what has splintered disjoint.
By then we have only echoes of past epochs left –
In a flooded foreign land where we majored in mistakes -
Wet with watery memories that disperse and disappoint.