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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476844" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sad Bell</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sad bell languishing long after autumn <br>	on a dead branch of the tree of knowledge <br>		rooted like black lightning<br>in the lightless watersheds of my soul, <br>	why have you left it so late to fall, <br>		why do you run like a false prophet <br>from the truth of your own song, <br>	hang back like a bird <br>		weary of turning south with the others <br>like the weeping sands of an upturned hourglass? <br>	Cruel life, kind life, no life at all, <br>		everyone dies like the last word at the entrance <br>of the cave-mouth they were seeking; <br>	the hidden treasure they marked <br>		on their starmaps of thought and feeling <br>buried deep in their own eyes. <br>	The key lies down in the coffin of the lock<br>		and graves everywhere open their doors <br>to the stranger on the threshold<br>	of his own homecoming. <br>		Young, I asked <br>if there were access to clarity. <br>	Now access and clarity have become one throne <br>		in the middle of a busy cemetery, <br>and the hand-signals of the flowers <br>	have traded in their uniforms <br>		for crowns of fire. <br>I don’t expect to be understood <br>	by anyone who hasn’t already achieved me<br>		by dying in the attempt. <br>Lovers have come <br>	and spread their legs like trembling, witching wands, <br>		looking for a dropp of water <br>in a sea of shadows<br>	and found in the morning <br>		only the fallen petals of their own faces <br>littered around the bed like an orchard. <br>	The lucky ones wake up <br>		like the only survivor <br>in the starworthy lifeboat of my heart, <br>	trying to establish directions they were never sure of, <br>		needles adrift on the compass of the sea <br>as they cursed me like a reef of skulls on the moon <br>	they ran across in the night.<br>		Emptiness doesn’t maintain a priesthood; <br>there are no temples to death, <br>	and compassion for most <br>		is a glass jewel that shatters like defeat <br>in the doorways of opulent liars, <br>	a raisin of blood <br>		when there’s no one there to witness it<br>given out like the feast of a queen to the poor <br>	innocent as the fraudulence of their sorrows. <br>		Poor sparrows, poor worms, <br>fish in the birdnets of their constellations; <br>	as they try to push the hook of the moon <br>		all the way through their tiny hearts. <br>Love is a savage feather <br>	coaxing a serpent of blood <br>		to fly<br>and sometimes dragons spread their wings <br>	like eyelids and eclipses<br>		over the dawns and dusks <br>that offer their raiments<br>	woven on the looms of the wind <br>		like the pearl-encrusted Egyptian silks of the sky. <br>But if you want to reach the stars, touch the divine, <br>	burn the stairwells and ladders of your spine <br>		and rise on the rungs of the fire <br>that climbs itself like a rootless echo <br>	or a voiceless vine, <br>		making a vehicle of the silence <br>that abides you like a seed dormant in the soil of yourself. <br>	Confide in yourself just once<br>		as if no one else, not even you were listening, <br>and the darkness will know, <br>	the great night will know <br>		the taste of your light as its own<br>before it illuminates everything, <br>	arraying the world in the wake of its shining, <br> 		despoiling the iron shrines <br>of your most cherished shadows<br>	like the ghost of a whore<br>		soliciting gold <br>from the pockets of the deepest graves, <br>	hoping they brought their wallets with them.<br>		The mind is not a paradigm of abstractions, <br>not a morning web out to catch a fly, <br>	its beauty incidental to its function.<br>		I have spent my life recklessly, <br>trying to enhance this spoof of nothing <br>	with the natural eloquence of a river <br>		that dies in the desert in a palace of salt, <br>labouring to perfect myself like a filament<br>	that can bear the weight of the radiance. <br>		In an impersonal world without beginning <br>even the seeing of the mesmerized beholder <br>	is only an eyelash on a fly <br>		compared to the splendour.</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=476844" data-title="Sad Bell de Patrick White" data-description="Sad bell languishing long after autumn 
	on a dead branch of the tree of knowledge 
		rooted like black lightning
in the lightless watersheds of my soul, 
	why have you left it so late to fall, 
		why do you run like a false prophet 
from the trut..."></div>
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