This spring-tide was not something
to excite the senses
but an overflowing of the heart.
Pure joy.
‘Love thou the rose but leave it on its stem.’

An overflowing of the heart
which sees its images,
reflected everywhere,
existing nowhere
but in itself.

Always the sun shines
in Portsonachon,
in Wien,
in the silence of the mind.

‘Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage.’

This voyage
(with Rilke’s Silent Angel looking on)
was it a beginning
or an ending?
‘Les vrais voyageurs sont ceux-là qui partent pour partir.’

No beginning then.
And no end.


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