Night falls through a brooding glass
Owls carries the fear of the day through an eerie sight
Moon shines on and consoles the forgotten souls
A Wolf howls from a Fearful hill
The night takes its form and structure
Ends and a new day begins

A child is born and cries, he begins to die as each day fades
Setting sun fades into*  COSMIC DEPTHS  to rise again
Sky turns from grey to silver, then black, then silver again
DNA encodes within a man to start another clone of his Father
Heart beats over and over again
Yet the heart gets the smallest amount of blood
All these
Ends and a new life begins

Birds tweet away the night's sorrow at dawn
Rain cascades and falls on Earth's landscape, as it romances the air and kiss the window pane
Families on sundays visit St Patrick's Cathedral and pray to God
As they did four years ago and still do concurrently
Women go naked to feed their damaged ego
The little children watch them on TV and go with the pace
Evil Fathers behind close doors
Romance their little daughters
And shut their mouth by threatening them with the knife
While Mothers pray and intercedes for the world on bended knees
While the moon hides and shy away from earth's darkness
While no  STARS GUIDE AN EVIL NIGHT

All these too ends and begins in a never ending stream of continuity as long as we have breath

ENDS AND BEGINS


EVNA-LUNA©

2016

**ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Born to an Italian father
and a dreaming,
wide-eyed American,
travel was my fortune,
my life before I chose it.

One late September evening,
my wide-brimmed
velvet hat and I  
discovered
what it was to fly.

Surging through moving sculptures
of clouds,
riding the Pan Am night
flight to London,
I was nine, and I was hooked.

Peter Pan was my secret love then.

I had saved my loose tooth
for the English tooth fairy, wishing
and hoping for an English penny.

Scones and bridges from my books
were real now to taste and see.

I began to write then, mostly
in my mind.

That was how I lived then,
and still do.

Finding and forming
words within for everything.

A sacred artesian spring,
i Fonti del Clitunno.
Perfection at Paestum.
Stonehenge,
when one could still
walk among those holy stones.

The early church of Santa Sabina,
whose high windows
transmit light
through membranes of mica.

The abiding silence
of these ancient, sacred places
  held me transfixed.

Continuity of time flowed,
like invisible honey,
all around me.

I wanted to taste it with my mind.
Know it with all of my being.
And one day, find the right words.

Remove a book from a library and it stands still the same.
Remove another and one more, and onwards in this way.
How long can you continue, for how many days,
Before no library is before you, and the concept starts to fray?

Now take the man before you, what he is is made through change.
What is it within him that makes past and future the same?
The body has continued, though clearly grown and aged.
Who he is now is content, your idea of him a frame.

His mind is still his own, though it has turned the page.
"Cogito ergo sum" the old Cartesian phrase.
How he thought before can be said as but a phase
And how he thinks is who he is. The man stood here has changed.

But still there's keen resemblance that you're clearly keen to hold.
Is he the same man young, as he'll be when he is old?