POETIC MEMENTO
1.
What for the poets . . . , didn't even ask Itself that morn
on December third two thousand six, a Poetic soul
so again on September eighteen two thousand fourteen
including all time in-between
after, times ago,
into Its lyre, intervened
even Hölderlin
himself
But decided to in this, needy
and confined
and raving, time
in Its own, poem
It Itself, to Itself
play
- a memento
2.
They did not, either Orpheus or Eurydice, try the least
to charm Time, so as to
together, for a little longer
return into
Transiency
New it, these children of Sophia Perrenis
that on the tree of Constancy
their love, fertilised by
poetic, melancholy
will leaf once, with eternal
spring
- in bloom
3.
So Orpheus & Eurydice and the Poet/ess along
understood, together in a fertile suffering
that what people call tragedy
is not but the false
charms, of the falsely crowned
Fate
And that Kismet is not a tzar who weighs
rather It is only a plate of the Mîzân [1]
into which The Owner of The Scale
He, The One & Unique
places the unit of, their
- measurement
t h u s :
Put your trust in my words, Hölderlin
It was not by a mere chance
that a Poetic spirit, erstwhile
felt so tight, in an early
morning, December
Sarajevan, brume
and then, a decade later
in September's
when It started with Orpheus after Eurydice
along the river basins of Bosnia
up to the mist
settled over
Sana [2]
in which It Itself performed
a ritual bath
Because the streams of the trials that flood
are giving It a ghusl for the holy journey
freeing It from the pointless
question:
"What for the poets in . . . ?"
No, it's not needy, the Time
Needy is the hearing of the people
deafened by the crescendo
of their, own
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