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Say goodbye while you still can
Fight against the hopelessness
Keep rising up 'til the pain is gone
Don't make any promises

Old friend, I'm losing my mind
Watching the days burn into years
Watching the years burn dry
Please stay alive (x3)
Please survive

Build a world inside a shell
I'm feeling just as hollowed out
I don't belong anywhere I go
Always the outsider

Old friend, I'm losing my mind
Watching the days burn into years
Watching the years burn dry
Please stay alive (x3)
Please survive (x2)

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לכל סיום יש התחלה חדשה
ות

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לכל סיום יש התחלה חדשה
ותמיד הפרידה היא קשה
לכל סיום יש התחלה חדשה
וכל דרך היא דרך קשה

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The Beatles - Two Of Us - Get Back sessions

# data[].attributes.body
Coming home is terrible
whether the dogs lick your face or not;
whether you have a wife
or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you.
Coming home is terribly lonely,
so that you think
of the oppressive barometric pressure
back where you have just come from
with fondness,
because everything’s worse
once you’re home.

You think of the vermin
clinging to the grass stalks,
long hours on the road,
roadside assistance and ice creams,
and the peculiar shapes of
certain clouds and silences
with longing because you did not want to return.
Coming home is
just awful.

And the home-style silences and clouds
contribute to nothing
but the general malaise.
Clouds, such as they are,
are in fact suspect,
and made from a different material
than those you left behind.
You yourself were cut
from a different cloudy cloth,
returned,
remaindered,
ill-met by moonlight,
unhappy to be back,
slack in all the wrong spots,
seamy suit of clothes
dishrag-ratty, worn.

You return home
moon-landed, foreign;
the Earth’s gravitational pull
an effort now redoubled,
dragging your shoelaces loose
and your shoulders
etching deeper the stanza
of worry on your forehead.
You return home deepened,
a parched well linked to tomorrow
by a frail strand of…

Anyway…

You sigh into the onslaught of identical days.
One might as well, at a time…

Well…
Anyway…
You’re back.

The sun goes up and down
like a tired whore,
the weather immobile
like a broken limb
while you just keep getting older.
Nothing moves but
the shifting tides of salt in your body.
Your vision blears.
You carry your weather with you,
the big blue whale,
a skeletal darkness.

You come back
with X-ray vision.
Your eyes have become a hunger.
You come home with your mutant gifts
to a house of bone.
Everything you see now,
all of it: bone.

Eva H.D

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בין הרגע לנצח

# data[].attributes.body
בין הרגע לנצח

# data[].attributes.body
הלהבה אומרת לברוש
כאשר אני רואה
כמה אתה שאנן
כמה עוטה גאון
משהו בתוכי משתולל
איך אפשר לעבור את החיים
הנוראים האלה

בלי שמץ של טירוף
בלי שמץ של רוחניות
בלי שמץ של דמיון
בלי שמץ של חירות
בגאווה עתיקה וקודרת

לו יכולתי הייתי שורפת
את הממסד
ששמו תקופות השנה
ואת התלות הארורה שלך
באדמה, באוויר, בשמש, במטר ובטל

הברוש שותק,
הוא יודע שיש בו טירוף
שיש בו חירות
שיש בו דימיון
שיש בו רוחניות,
אך השלהבת לא תבין