'I hear no news'

Epistle to a friend

I hear no news

The silence lays like dust.
Is this what some call eloquence?
If so, I cannot see the trace of thought,
so erased the lines, by time, by sand;
the etchings bear no message. This ancient
language of your clan, even in its modern mode,
I barely understand. Does it convey
sweet joy, disgust, or mere oblivion,
the I-don’t-care writ mute? So be it.

If ignorance be bliss, then this be heaven!
I cannot even guess what attar of the soul
eludes my senses: no touch to know
if you are real or wax; no smell to sense
your fear or calmness; no sight to soothe my eyes;
no taste; no, never. This so-called bliss
invades my nightmares, leaves my daydreams
drenched from wrestling demons. If ignorance
be full of joy, then empty now my cup,
and fill it with your soul's deep longing;
no pith's too sad, too bitter.

I await the day when we will truly talk,
without the need for us to sigh regret
for being human and therefore less than God
or angels. Just men, who trod a dusty
germ-filled-path that some call life, out of denial;
that we call life, eyes-wide-open, just the same.
The day when we in honesty will share shall come.

I hear no news. I just assume that you
and yours are happy. That the silence
of the dust awaits a reign of eloquence
to bring forth desert flowers.
Sweetness and beauty will fill the senses,
deprived so many years. And if the flowers
rip with thorns? So be it.


© Kåre Enga

Catalogue number: [162.177]
5 juni 2005