There is a place to which I often go, <br />Not by planning to, but by a flow <br />Away from all existence, to a cold <br />Lucidity, whose will is uncontrolled. <br />Here, the mills of God are never slow. <br /> <br />The landscape in its geological prime <br />Dissolves to show its quintessential slime. <br />A million stars are blotted out. I think <br />Of each historic passion as a blink <br />That happened to the sad eye of Time. <br /> <br />But residues of meaning still remain, <br />As darkest myths meander through the pain <br />Towards a final formula of light. <br />I, too, reject this clarity of sight. <br />What cannot be explained, do not explain. <br /> <br />The mundane language of the senses sings <br />Its own interpretations. Common things <br />Become, by virtue of their commonness, <br />An argument against their nakedness <br />That dies of cold to find the truth it brings.<br /><br />Nissim Ezekiel<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/philosophy-27/
