Lowlands

In the wooded lowlands of life,
Where the air hangs dank and dull
Over the moss that creeps inexorably up,
Intent on strangling the oak trees,
And the distant bells of salvation can only be faintly heard,
Chiming for others,
Reaching us intermittently through the stillness,
On the edge of hearing,
Teasing our consciousness with hope that is not ours,
There we can be found, through veils of mist and loss.

Fate leaves us stranded on that deserted stretch of land
With naught in our pockets but frozen matchbooks,
Souvenirs we took from hotels
Where we made love to our favorite lovers.
They snap in our numb fingers as we try to build a fire,
Reminding us relentlessly of our failures
And the impotence of nostalgia.
The only shelter to be found is under brambles and dead leaves;
We lie there through soft, quiet rains,
Dreaming of mud and sand.

Exiled, we tramp the day away,
Searching for flickers of meaning,
In a morass of logical nihilism,
Trying silently to maintain our composure,
As darkness descends and extinguishes,
Even the light we hold in our hand to guide us home.
Groping our way over barren moors,
We can’t help but remember that even
The home we seek is a fake, a poor copy
Not even resembling the original,
Which is lost forever in the
Furthest reaches of our memory.

Time is the sole rescuer in this timeless wilderness,
The only one who patrols the footpaths and sets the
Wanderers back on the road that leads to civilization.
And if we find his lodge by the smoke from its chimney,
And approach its warm door hoping to obtain early release,
We will see that even he is never at home,
That the smoke is from a fire long gone out;
We will see his meager possessions lying enmeshed in cobwebs,
The dust settled and undisturbed for an age or more.