-or-

Look At Me I Wrote A Poem!

 

“Happy as a corpse” was a common phrase in medieval Switzerland, it meant exceedingly happy, as happy as someone who would never have anything to worry about again.

When I climb the last tree to a starry dais

raised high on the roof of the world

and see the empaneled universe spinning around me;

when I walk through that eternity of paths,

knotted as a labyrinth,

and am entwined in the fabric of the sky,

its tesseract the hands of god,

I will be happy as a corpse.

 

When I see a girl,

some slight creature blue haired and green hearted,

and she matches my gaze and does not look away;

when we stare at each other

and no veil of shame or fear falls between us

so that our desire is matched

and our doubt is silenced,

I will be happy as a corpse.

 

When my blood is hot but does not boil over

and I know her by her smell and feel,

by the weight of her body in my arms;

when we are each a tool in the hands of the other

so that the covenant of Abraham shall be ours,

instruments for the filling of the heavens

and the shaping of the worlds to come,

I will be happy as a corpse.

 

When the roads are quiet

and the towers are dark,

shadows against the hills and sky;

when the sprawl goes up in one season-long burn

and the ash is washed into great sinks and deltas,

the fire a surgeon

and the rain a scalpel,

I will be happy as a corpse.

 

When I am met as I enter the hall

and offered a bowl of golden mead,

the sip a greeting and a sacrament older than words;

when sit beside my brothers,

men of honor and men of strength,

and food and drink is served

of which there seems to be no end,

I will be happy as a corpse.

 

When before me there stands a god and queen,

whose mother ruled before her,

with eyes like the breaking of the day;

when she speaks my name and I come forward

and am received into the court of the dawn

to bow her vassal and servant,

the least among those seated at her feet,

I will be happy as a corpse

 

When I live in the garden

at the root of the world

and my home is a hollow beneath the tallest tree;

when birds nest in my hair

and worms burrow into my feet

and I drink of waters stained cidery

for the ground through which they have passed,

Then I will be happy as a corpse,

rotting into the earth.

Advertisements