It’s never too late for happiness. The desired happens,
if it happens. And then it rests. And then in the manger
it plays and waits to grab her, strong and healthy cheeks,
one courageous lad. But soon time runs out and the desired one
puts on the gas and disappears. Unappreciative she says: it’s done. Insolent she thinks: the brood…
Half-pilgrims, and half-undertakers. Half-mixed up ,half-alone.
Embarked on a long, too long a road. From hell. Purified.
Warriors without swords. The repentant of every rebellion.
But still the hour of strife arrives. And it arrives
soon. I arrive alone. The right one. Not knowing where.
Split in half, axed in half and chosen. The repenter of the spirit.
Here I am to exchange a sinister sin for a sunny smile.
Unworthy for the moment. Here I am to turn a pallid world
into a useless fly. The right one. Barely seen. The joy of doom.
With a taste of spiced happiness. Enticing and red coloured.
Yearning of expression, painful of foreboding. Happiness coated with
never-too-late hope. Filled with emptiness. With pure Trust.
Happy joy. In the burning coals of millennia. Perfection tested in the
proto-source. Realised? Unrealised? Heart’s delight. Expected in ardent appeals and curses. Known to madmen.