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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476766" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Musing In The Aftermath</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Everything sings, the shadows of the winter branches against the streetlamp<br>	laced on the windowpane ribboned by dirt, backddoors and rooftops<br> 		and yet I am enveloped in this silence without wings, this voice <br>that valleys the universe like a dropp of water down the spine of a leaf<br>	to the root of no flower, no heart, no simple mystery of the night<br>		maturing into stars. I’m in a room with books, paintings, lamps, <br>plants, computers, easels and cats. Things are neither right nor wrong<br>	though I flatter myself that I have grown from mistake to mistake, <br>		defeat to defeat and cloak the sum of all my failures <br>in the unconvincing authority of experience. <br>	It’s rude to take your masks off in the light.<br>		I try to see myself in the darkness like a star <br> with too much to say that loves to give its hiding place away. Forgive <br>	this indiscretion of my solitude, but my name has obligations <br>		and there’s nothing in the house to eat but swans.<br>Soon enough there’ll be a term to all these spectral visions <br>	that add their shadows to the lead migrations of my thought<br>		and traverse the motionless deserts of the skull-faced moon.<br>And what can I say to the pilgrims who come to visit my heart, <br>	all these lean feelings without deceit or art<br>		who crowd around the miracle like damaged mystics and moths<br>hoping their agony will be immolated in the serene ferocity of the void? <br>	Space is only the rough draft of my emptiness<br>		and ghosts confer in the wings like uninspired actors or lie detectors trying to interpret the crimes of my last passion play. Before I was born <br>	to cross the sky in a blue coffin with a black rose <br>		among all these islands of light, I was the ashes of a bird<br>in the cold furnace of my life, a jest of the indifferent wind<br>	that toys with the lamp and candle of my seeing.<br>		Now, in every word, among a hundred million burning stars, <br>it’s enough to watch a vagrant firefly, a constellation of one<br>	blind the universe in a single flash with marvel<br>		as I slide down the helical bannisters of every descending starwell<br>toward the dark by which the dark is known.<br>	Together with everyone I heed the mystery alone <br>		and I don’t know how I got this way <br>or if I’m a shadow or a wing, the gesture of anything, <br>	but when the moon is in my window, the night arrayed, <br>		musing in the aftermath of life’s homely escapade, <br>a little afraid, I feel someone dying, and I sing.</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=476766" data-title="Musing In The Aftermath de Patrick White" data-description="Everything sings, the shadows of the winter branches against the streetlamp
	laced on the windowpane ribboned by dirt, backddoors and rooftops
 		and yet I am enveloped in this silence without wings, this voice 
that valleys the universe like a dr..."></div>
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