What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this snowy rubbish? Son of noman, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only a heap of broken teeth, where there is no sun, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cigarette no relief, And the dry cold concrete no sound of laughter. Only There is shadow under this snow, Come in under the shadow of this snow, And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of snow.
(adaptation)
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Percervering with Resilient Diligence Into the Winter Waste land
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4 comments:
Hardcore - yet reflective of how this time of year makes me feel sometimes as well.
Good stuff dude, keep the writing coming.
indeed. adapted from what?
rimbaud:
A Sleeper in the Valley
A green hole where a river sings;
Silver tatters tangling in the grass;
Sun shining down from a proud mountain:
A little valley bubbling with light.
A young soldier sleeps, lips apart, head bare,
Neck bathing in cool blue watercress,
Reclined in the grass beneath the clouds,
Pale in his green bed showered with light.
He sleeps with his feet in the gladiolas.
Smiling like a sick child, he naps:
Nature, cradle him in warmth: he's cold.
Sweet scents don't tickle his nose;
He sleeps in the sun, a hand on his motionless chest,
Two red holes on his right side.
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