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Tony Tweedy Aug 4
How many days could I count that I have left to me?
Would I dare to count, knowing that finite they must be?

I know that there are far fewer than when it all began.
None the wiser am I, as to whether it was to some plan.

I find I have come to ponder the complex and the small.
To wonder if there be a purpose or just no point at all?

Why be given to the thoughts and give time to such things?
Looking for answers but deepest thoughts no answer brings.

Why give the imagining to some ethereal immortal goal,
and wrap it up so fragile in such a flimsy mortal soul?

Were there ever choices that I made as I took life's risk?
Or was it all pre-recorded on some universal Blu-ray disc?

I know the day's sun is setting, another day so newly passed,
Mortal mind taunts me, in the tally, will tomorrow be my last?
Why do we even harbour thoughts of immortality?
Zywa Mar 24
I was young, I went

to experience grand beauty
on hands of success, now
I walk on clouds

of electric light
glitter and admiration
celebrating my retirement

in the heaven of parties
star among the stars
smiling beautiful people

pearls, botultox and gel
in semi-gray hair, tireless
in time to the brass

nobody needs to go to the toilet
we are hovering over the beds
in which despair tosses and turns

because of the days and the years
of unsuccessful lives, and we dance
the conga since we are going

nowhere
"La grande bellezza" ("The great beauty", 2013, Paolo Sorrentino)

Collection "Pending rain"
Zywa Feb 6
Who really wants to

do something meaningful, must --


visit old people.
"An accidental man" (1971, Iris Murdoch)

Collection "Unspoken"
Zywa Nov 2021
The sky is burning, mists
push forward, the signs tilt down --
Everyone lives longer

than the world in which he grew up
He has to withdraw
or change

The watchtower is unmanned
dogs whine in the distance
This city may no longer exist

as it was, its theaters
have been declared unnecessary
The last players watch

but now it is real
they find it difficult to enjoy
the beauty of the downfall

that, since hundreds of generations
has been flattening glorious empires
to heroic stories

Who will, without self-interest
sing the praises of the good
that I have known?
"Sunset on the Railway" (1929, Edward Hopper)

#eot = end of times

Collection "NightWatch"
Zywa Oct 2021
Pull out the first, the second
and a few more
each day
      
Maybe you think
it's better to dye
and you try
      
some fancy colours and
you often look in the mirror
That's it
      
Until you get patches of emptiness
where a grey hair does not stand out
In the end you pull out the last one
Inspired by "When his hair started to grey" (2019, Fazlul Huq)

Collection "Different times"
Zywa Oct 2021
My dear tree of birth,

we're just as old, just as bold --


but you're growing buds.
Collection "Different times"
Zywa Sep 2021
I do know it is me
that woman I don't know
that friendly but strange

face, which is also on photos
with a wide mouth, with folds
crow's feet and high temples

that do not match, not with me
not with my hands, that eagerly
touch life

Only the eyes of others
are used to the mask
that I cannot take off

Even my own sister
is not surprised, she knows me
older than I am
Collection "Metamorphic body"
Zywa Sep 2021
I am not ugly,

my ruptures and shortcomings --


are worth a lifetime.
Human wabi-sabi (acceptance of impermanence and imperfection)

Collection "On living on"
Zywa Sep 2021
The leaves are fragile,

at the slightest they come off --


caution! breathe softly!
In response to "Stoner" (1965, John Williams)

Collection "On living on"
Zywa Aug 2021
I have become old
and I can only play
with my thoughts
the rest is too stiff

But don't be mistaken
it is pleasant to feel
in today's warm wind
what it is like

to stand on the jetty
in a thin dress, waiting
without the need
to do anything

but enjoy, flapping
in the sun, while I
can see now how
it all will continue

My crush and the child
who embraces my leg
the same child next to me
with her own child

on her arm, our feet
in the surf, breathing
one love, three women
with wild hair

just like on the mountain
where I throw up the ashes
into the world, that's how I play
my life together
Collection "The migration"
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