The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Casa Blanca

I dreamed of a house by the sea, so white
it was no dream.
The summer night was so divinely clear
summer had long since gone.
I saw my love stand in the doorway,
saw her I had forsaken.
I dreamed of a house by the sea, so white,
of my love and the summer night
though it was very long ago
and though it was no dream.
 
--Henrik Nordbrandt
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