Nemo

The lighthouse shines like memories of a star

And guides my path through darkness from afar.

As I, upon the howling wind, do hear

My promise of redemption, faint but clear.

 

So on a snow-clad field I walk at night

Braving the blizzard’s unrelenting might

That piles and piles the snow both sides of me

Until its whiteness is all I can see.

 

My path’s not marked by footprints but by shapes

Of dying children, frozen in my wake:

The death-toll from me taken by my quest.

So while I wander, they lie down and rest.

 

And in their eyes the fire faintly shines,

Does flicker one more time, and then it dies.

The foolish, the remorseless and the wise

At last united in a grave of ice.

 

The one still on his feet heads for the call

Of distant fires whose pale lights enthrall

The just as pale horizon, where he seeks

That secret lair from which the shimmers heed:

 

“Come after us!” the promise’s cheerful tone,

“We see you, walking jaded and alone.

But where we live, the springs of life do flow

And every heart’s with mirth full overgrown.”

 

Another all but whispers: “For your strife

A chalice we have ready, and a knife

Upon a silver plate, so that you may

First quench your thirst, and then complete your way.”

 

The tears upon my cheeks are made of ice

Like crystal starlets stolen from the sky,

And once I gave one for a token to

A lonesome angel in the bloom of youth

To spend the night with me, to keep me warm

And lie of solace, there between my arms.

 

Another time a witch bid me to pay

A drop of blood when I had come astray

Into her realm of spooks, but from my strains

No single drop was left within my veins.

 

So, moved by pity, I instead agreed

To lie with her united in the reeds.

For fiend or angel, hag or pretty maid

Are all but footnotes to a larger slate.

 

The ice creeps closer, soon it’s reached my heart

That has been all but frozen from the start

And beats just out of routine, for in vain

Did I attempt to clear it from this tain.

 

The veils of night start lifting, soft and cold,

And far away a shimmer I behold

Upon the mountain line, the blood of dawn –

A scarlet shadow delicately drawn.

 

The dark is giving way, but not the ice

Which in the light still craves for my demise

And bites my skin with transcendental teeth

That sink down to the very soul beneath.

 

Then, for a moment, up between the clouds,

A gust of wind disintegrates the shroud

And opens up a picture never seen

By melancholy wanderers like me:

 

There, in the waking light floats, huge and pale

And ancient, thus disinterested whale.

A field of icicles hangs from its chest

While luminescent shells take up the rest.

 

And for a moment, light invades my gloom:

A counter-thesis to impending doom.

This being from the sediments of time

Will still be floating, eons down the line

 

And watch the world through disinterested eyes

From its indifferent realm up in the skies

Where stars light up its way, and clouds enshrine

Those monumental flukes, that tail divine.

 

But then again, the mist falls back in place

And takes from me that awe-inspiring grace.

The cold claims back my mind, the rising dawn

Embraces me while I start waking on.

 

And winds around me howl their requiem

As if I was the man to burry them –

At last, we’re are just patterns in the sand

So soon erased forever from this land.

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