Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476916" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Lament Of The Last Train Whistle</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The lament of the last train whistle <br>has disappeared into the distance <br>mournfully looking for its lost child. <br>October night in the woods <br>around an old fire pit of prophetic skulls<br>blowing ghosts of smoke in my face<br>that bring me to tears, a neolithic calendar <br>of all the old and new moons that have passed.<br>So many, so much, that used to matter <br>doesn't anymore. Dream figures<br>that shed their skins like the longer wavelengths <br>of watersnakes in an infra-red mindscape <br>of serpent fire dying like the sun <br>that can tell the hour by the taste of its ashes.<br>I throw more well-dried thresholds on the fire <br>like branches that used to be green with the tears<br>of sweeter departures and arrivals over the years. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">All the light's jumped from orbitals <br>of the tree rings that sag like bags <br>under the eyes knotted like islands <br>in the heartwood of their xylem and phloem. <br>Here where the river parts like long hair <br>on the skull of a stone, I sit like a demon <br>in a sacred place, clarified, alert, and alone<br>as any nocturnal animal in the woods. <br>The chalkdust of my bones trying <br>to connect the stars to their constellations <br>snagged in the trees like the rags of spiderwebs<br>on the blackboard of a starmap as wide as the sky <br>and deep as the subconscious of the Burgess Shale.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's not a betrayal to let go of your faith<br>when you had none in the first place<br>and you don't need a parachute on the edge of space<br>to plunge from paradise, or a weather balloon <br>of a bad Christian poet to shepherd Dante <br>like a moon out of hell. Be yourself, <br>especially when nobody's watching<br>except that same drone in the sky <br>that occasionally flashes a flake of silver off <br>its stone cold third eye to flint your awareness <br>that it's still there in the cosmic background<br>like a witness to your dreams and schemes <br>for a luxuriously appointed life of enlightenment. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Be yourself. The direct copulative imperative <br>that has supplanted the light as the first word <br>out of the mouth of creation. Be yourself. <br>And then let there be light by the side of a good fire <br>to let you see who that is as acutely <br>as you can see in the dark who that is not. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The migration of the Canada geese might seem <br>a broken rosary of new moons calling out <br>the names of God to you, and one unknown, <br>or silhouetted against the moon they might <br>suggest the afterbirth attached to a cut umbilical cord <br>and your heart might feel reborn somewhere <br>in the autumn of your life, a child of the fire, <br>a flower in the full bloom of its solitude<br>dancing with its own mercurial apparition <br>on the waters of life in the mindstream <br>always out of season enough to lag behind <br>so it can tell the time by the widening gaps in its passage<br>as it's waiting for the night to catch up to its own shining<br>like a thief of fire unchained from the rock <br>that broke the glass window of its transfixed seeing <br>with a meteor in the hands of an enlightened delinquent.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or you might read the falling leaves as occult lifelines <br>on a Tarot deck of overlapping lifespans<br>like the scales of a dragon playing solitaire <br>beside the small inferno of a signal fire to the stars, <br>to let them know you're coming faster <br>than the time it takes for a thought to make it <br>all the way to death and back to birth again<br>as if you were pinging your emotions<br>like stray wavelengths from the oceans of your awareness <br>off the horns of the moon the way <br>you used to skip rocks out over the sea as a boy<br>to see how long they would keep on going <br>like a waterclock of stone before they sank<br>like the flying fish of the hard, cold facts of life back into<br>the numinous depths of your collective unknowing<br>where the stars aren't fixed to anything that isn't <br>flowing along with them like the wind on the mindstream <br>or a small fire catching its breath in the silence and the solitude <br>of so much radiance, before it's on its way again for good.</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>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<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=476916" data-title="The Lament Of The Last Train Whistle de Patrick White" data-description="The lament of the last train whistle 
has disappeared into the distance 
mournfully looking for its lost child. 
October night in the woods 
around an old fire pit of prophetic skulls
blowing ghosts of smoke in my face
that bring me to tears, a ne..."></div>
</div>
</div>