Is this the end Magister Ludi?
Has this winter stilled the corpse of the already departed world?
Didn’t you hear, the last birds chittered the day in bile of a quitter,
And lustrous monades tipped; the old game sunk bitter.
Found a distant, detached, gray stranger purled
in scorn against the ivory tower
looking stern from a folly Gothic window
That leaped with the last ray of light woe;
What would it be like to let in a passing hour
all go? I sat back in the head-chair.
Ousted, surrendered to a sudden darkness
To a point of becoming a glass-bead corpse, heartless.
Nothing. One with all things; circled in a square.
II. Verses and Senses
“Is this the end Magister Ludi?”
Have I touched that pointless point
with the dulled razor blade of reason?
For I couldn’t find it any more,
couldn’t face it,
or make sense of all things I know so well,
and feel thirst for things I know that I don’t know;
a meaning got indistinguishable
from the foolishness of a folly;
It was not that the truth “is not,” and out there,
or lost; it might be even within,
but is there any purpose
when it hides under the vale of a dole melancholy?
“How is it not to be,
not at all? Becoming the dim of a glee?
Can that even be? To become so mulishly laden?”
Braking off the world clothed into a black,
long mantle, cathedral of concepts,
mind games, endless music, virtuoso’s concerts
roofing harmony to finally cry out that wrack
and see every flawed discord in stolen, suffering souls.
I stood frail before the overextended silence;
“What is to be poetic? Can that ever be spoken or written?”
I know it now; it could be only dreamed and heard within
When the universe boils to the highest point
yet to collapse on it self
pouring out of its wreckage
the mirage of continuous passing ends
where the past becomes again the future
and encodes gene in its violent meme;
in every life,
the violence to be tamed by the saturnine wound of passing times;
oh I know lives I lived. Lived them all and each
written them from page to page
and read them to the end
of a wrong calculation where what is not possible
in the arrow of time dithyramb
that still mirrors the unity of universe vastness
split with a gravity wave that unites us with its
origin, the implosion and the crushing shards,
the splinters that bleed over this pitch cold and dark night
and I know it as the primordial beauty
that helplessly drinks from the fountain of the unknown;
but don’t miss to act and fulfill the script,
let your life be the sacrifice that awaits for the sweet rebirth
in taste of “mourning and weeping in this valley of tears”;
and don’t forget,
“what a luxury it is to be, and write poetry…”.
III. Preludij Pjesmi (nothing sweeter than to sing to the Muse in mother’s tongue)
A večer me ostavila u mračnoj sobi
Ono sto je neizrecivo je poetično
Jer zrcali jedinstvo svemira sa iskonskim početkom
koji živjeći umire
U svakoj riječi
I matemtičkom proračunu;
Ljepota iskona i zbivanje je jedno u svemu.