opening onto
darkness space & sky
oh fish of fortune fish of heaven sweeper of
fish
keeper of the gate i eat you
here i meet you in the bowels of my heart
neutral heart
near naked sister of pale washed stone
reflected in your reflection selfless
reflection in stone
the writing on the wall so clear
but untranslatable
put away your hands look upon the ground no
longer
catch the sweeper’s sad wisdom
& mystery
before he’s swept into the pit
once more
you are an army of many
& the child who will never reach
womanhood
smiles her last innocent smile
your crown your honeycombed head
oh great BEE giver of honey & tree
where the roots & branches are one
you are an army of damaged saints
soon to be buried in the deep deep woods
away from weeping & the river
away from knowledge & the streaming
air
you will be borne back to nothing
& will vanish into where nothing
first was born
you will not eat the fruits of the future
but will dine within the minds of murderers
themselves deceased.
but the hearts of a few will remain forever
pure
& the games will again resume
innocent warlike playful games
of territory & stick.
i’ll relax beside the wall
& think outside this great domain
yes let’s relax just as the sweeper
now does
legs crossed beside the steps that lead to
the entrance
of the entrance to the entrance
of the WORLD
the Sweeper of the world
the Fish that sweeps the stars
the Bird that sails the sky.
oh sweeper
i ask you only once
before you begin your task again
WHAT is that question that is etched into
stone
behind your head?
no
don’t get up just yet
first i must place the smile back onto the
massive godface
& not ask for simple truths.
the heart of another cruel war will out beat
us
the souls of birds will evaporate
within the cold furnace of life.
the doorway leads to the passage
the passage leads to the center of a vast
empty plate
that will hide us.
FREE
Free from death & devouring breath
FREE
let us celebrate
let us dine on our thoughts
let us not devour ourselves any longer.
the sweeper rises from the stone
warns the weary wind of his approach
grabs hold of his broom
& sweeps away...
Steve
Dalachinsky ,
NYC 5/2001
Written
to the
photos taken by
Yoko Toda of Angkor Wat.