Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo I Acheron’s waters wash me Till Lethe slakes my thirst. Eris breaks my mind And the Maniae have moved in. I am old with wandering And cannot keep you safe. I go to dance in a place apart where even the old are fair. I am not even an attendant lord, no Rosencrantz or Guildenstern, but just a rude mechanical to dig a grave or play a wall. This golden apple is not mine, It passed to you awhile. Keep it safe and close to you Till time and times are done. II Now it lies in your hands and here we are, At this moment where the dancer is and the dance. The falcon in his gyre makes his turn through the past, the passing and the still to come. Mind not mind, but that which is not mind, Desiccation of the world of order, Evacuation of the world of truth, Inoperancy of the world of mind. Hamlet’s question holds my mind while At my back cold blasts I feel. I wish to strive, to seek, to find and Not to yield. The centre will hold, For there you are, my golden light.
Published with (huge) apologies to W.B. Yeats and T.S. Eliot. I have torn and mangled and misquoted but they both inspire.
Like all my attempts at anything but non-fiction prose I am still not entirely happy with this but I post it nonetheless. It’s been three weeks ruminating and writing so I feel it’s now or never.