In Babel’s tower
glassless windows devour
every wind-borne word.
The ancient mortar
holds each ragged stone in place.
A brittle embrace.
Only its great weight,
its slumbering granite slabs,
keep it standing up.
What of our labours?
Clutching mossy river stones
to our thin, bruised chests.
We shore up its walls
in a futile effort to
defy gravity.
We toil at its loom,
snatching whispers from the air
confused filaments.
We sever fingers
on threads of nonsense in vain.
and weave no meaning.
RG,
though i don’t always understand your words (being a bear of very little brain), that does not mean they hold any less beauty for me (even the so-called “emo crap” ;). it is simply a different kind of beauty. i do not have to understand the words of a song to appreciate their music.
what i am trying (and probably failing badly)to express is that your voice moves me, and many others, and i (and they) will miss your voice in our lives whilst you are doing whatever it is you need to do. be safe and well, beautiful one, and return to us soon.
hugs
Squeaky
RG,
I hope your time away is refreshing and restorative. Enjoy yourself and I look forward to your return.
Rory
I really love the last stanza in this. That image of creating something in hopes of blindly generating meaning from the work is tragically stark.