What Will Be Left Behind

For nearly thirty-three years I have been silent My thoughts rush like a river’s untamed rapids Standing beside an old birch tree, I’m waiting As astral beings of light and darkness dance around me

I often wonder what will I leave behind How will I be remembered, or, rather, Will I be remembered at all? The pendulum strikes for the third time

Now I am maniacally chiseling away The layers of sorrow, of despair, and disdain The more I carve new shapes on my body The more I see that I never really knew it

For thirty-three years I have been punishing with unceasing force The clay vessel which others named unworthy, pale, sick I have been silent for so long that uttering a single sigh feels like a riot Perhaps it’s time to lift the banner and march forward!

I will leave behind my chisel, my astral maps, and my whispers So that if someone is as tired as I am, they could carve a new vessel They could visit my astral worlds and enjoy endless transmutations Or they could find solace through the words which keep the fire burning