A Man...

† -“Once cities gloam’d so proud,
† Left in dust to feed the ground,
† To be whole, cry, without a sound,
† And their silence seems so loud.”

It is always what is written behind, that we seek, some in pause of living, some in living that pause.
Yet, none can seize the eluding sense of living the past.

Does a man, pursued by reasoning, reasons by his interpreted acted acts, simply to build on ground that hast been given; or does he nearly lives up to behest of the one that life has given to him?

Must new things, be poisoned by those last that our tongue feels?
Where’s the joy of life given?
It is hidden under consequences of our life we live sat.
And yet, now on my eyes, you may call me blind;
perseem nothing to find, but that this world human hearts on two hast divided.

The one, that ken world by action, and gives its parle by things, acts, deeds;
and the other that dives deep, with, but one question to ask, yet answer they can only feel, on the reason of: “Why?”

And the numb man, relives his past, as soon the swoon of conscious makes us rue.
When Melpomene brings sweet hush, when our hands reach out but to none, do we feel the essence of living, the essence of our being, or is it still that we feel the need to pursue the outer border of being sad and rue?
Is it that we always do behold the outer layer and the reactions in it as we threw the obvious?

Who art thou?

The pale dusk broke, it seemed like a dream,
So distant and in gleam, while those lucid shadows,
Across these walls played those plays to fill empty halls.
And now did I wake, to find myself dreaming,
In this vastful empty space, the life I was living.
The hourglass bottom is at tide, while those winds pass me
Like of barren trees, they glide.
Stop! Come hither! But nobody hears my cry,
And from deepest hell, reminiscence starts:
O, the joyful life, the merit in every sunlight!
And the clouds ‘ere never dark
threw the sorrow in the ground.
For years I was living, walking on adorned fields,
With a smiled face seeking clover’s fourth lief.
And I did! I found it! I picked it, yet I couldn’t keep it.
Time drains everything yet not the child’s markings upon it.
Fourth lief wizzen, so will child in it.
So where did this desert in glass led my pacing?
It seems like I did nothing!
But I must be wrong!
From what are these walls if not of my stone?
Even though my stone can never make walls,
For they are much too weak, for wind’s play to resist,
My stone now seems more like a smoke,
Which makes this ghastly walls.
And on every side of my soul
Stands a carving on a stone:
Who art thou?

Ko smo mi?

Kad smo mi postali mi?
Da li se iko seća kad se rodio?
Da li se iko seća kad je postao on sam?
Šta mi moze garantovati da sam se ja rodio sa mojim rođenjem?
Da li ja zaista postojim ako mislim i upravljam telom?
Da li je to preduslov za postojanje?
Ako sam se Ja rodio sa svojim telom, zašto se Ja toga ne sećam?
Ako sam Ja postao tek posle mojeg rođenja, znači li to da je svako Ja van njih samih?
A zašto baš telo? Zašto baš telo je ono koje gozbi stečeno JA?
Začto, onda ako sam svoje Ja stekao posle rođenja, zašto telo ovo Ja interpretira kao vrhovni uslov za sve ostalo? za uticaje? za uopšteno oformljivanje Ja? Zašto baš telo?
Ako prestanem da mislim, hoću li postojati?
Da li postoji vrednost ako Ja izgubi vrednost? A da li Ja zaista može da izgubi vrednost?
Šta mi zapravo može garantovati da ovo Ja nije postojalo ranije, ili da neće postojati kasnije? Da li sam Ja živeo ranije?
Da li to Ja može da se umori od ponavljanja ako se ponovi?
I da li to Ja prestaje ikad da biva?

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