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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476448" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Thousand Years From Now</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A thousand years from now <br>who will remember me<br>once I've disappeared from this windowpane, <br>a vapour of breath with awareness, <br>a nebular stain on the clarity <br>that will wash its hands of me <br>like a scar of water that has clung too long? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'm not trying to embalm <br>the elegiac content of these obvious sunsets in words, <br>and it's hard to shake honey out of these mordant bells<br>that lie like duplicitous lifeboats to the gullible compasses and maps<br>that keep crashing like doves that don't have the wingspan <br>to come back with news of land<br>to this museum of DNA, two of every kind, <br>I keep scuttling like an ark on the top of every wave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And what is a grave if not an abandoned embassy<br>that didn't have time to shred its dreaded secret? <br>And sometimes, when the emptiness and the silence <br>are beyond bearing, <br>I hold myself up like a passport at the panicked gates<br>that have made me an exile and a wounded threshold in my own home<br>and clamour like a continent <br>to be repatriated anywhere<br>that isn't a country whose borders are stretched out like refugee lines.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But it's a foolish wish. <br>And if there's a dragon to slay, <br>I realize it's only more shadows and swordplay, <br>and I think of the return of the rain lifted from the sea <br>and how the sea never feels anything is missing, <br>and everything is passage without arrival or departure<br>and how the arrow never leaves the hand of a good archer.<br> <br>It's human nature to understand, <br>a sacred mode of disobedience <br>to look into the eyes of our worst fears<br>even if it's just to flare like a star without rescue <br>and scream out in light a moment against its own extinction.<br>But who or what or nothing is ever there to listen <br>as we go out like flies and stars in a toilet bowl? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And a love of laws is not the law of love <br>and there have been so many dragons <br>left out of the chrysales of their questions like answers<br>that the heart is not sustained by the impersonal blessing <br>of ubiquitous entropy in a long, lab coat<br>as the spirit longs for transformations<br>a star and a night beyond itself <br>that might astonish a human <br>with something enduringly human<br>like a next breath that can't be smudged by death<br>or something drastic in the dust that remembers us<br>when we were stars<br>that thawed through the windowpane<br>as if we were looking through the lenses of our own eyes<br>to discover everything we live is how we die<br>and we're always a plight and a plea away from knowing why.<br> <br>Imagine, one night, looking up at the sky <br>and there were no death to raise the moon<br>like a calendar above your neck, <br>and everything you saw around you, <br>crows, kites, keys, <br>last year's pine cones on this year's trees, <br>were not denuded of their mystic specificity<br>in this mortal profusion of origins<br>that ends where it begins. Imagine, <br>one morning, not getting up from the dream <br>to pan the mindstream for the nugget of a skull <br>that might be gold, and the luster of the radiance <br>never grows old like the taste of the moon in your mouth.<br> <br>Wouldn't this onceness then be eternal, <br>and what I'm saying now, indelible<br>as the space that prompts the stars to shine? <br>Learning wisdom is learning the universe <br>as if it were your own face, on the inside, <br>and you were its only eyes, <br>disappearing from view so that all that remains is you. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Birth, a breathing in; death, a breathing out, <br>before the first and after the last, this pulse and suspiration, <br>muses around the wellspring, witches around the cauldron, <br>planets fluttering like moths <br>at the windows of the constellations. Like the moon<br>I pass my hand over like an eclipse as if it were my own skull, <br>I have been creatively maintained from the start by my own expiration.<br>Are there no orchards in the hearts of old women? <br>Are there no graves in the eyes of a child?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476448" data-title="A Thousand Years From Now de Patrick White" data-description="A thousand years from now 
who will remember me
once I've disappeared from this windowpane, 
a vapour of breath with awareness, 
a nebular stain on the clarity 
that will wash its hands of me 
like a scar of water that has clung too long? 

I'm no..."></div>
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