Tuesday 7 January 2014

A poem by Lars Forssell

Whatever you may say

Whatever you may say
about faithlessness and deceit
there stands an oak at the world’s centre
with roots deep down into the earth mantle
deep down in the Interior

And a motionless owl
blinks in the tree
on the very thickest branch
Alertly, attentively it looks at us
with its round yellow eyes
And beneath the tree sits a god
that has cut himself a reed
and carved holes for the fingers
and when he blows on it out fly
arrows of sound
Not of the kind that kill
outside the ear and calmness

There is a sense of security
It feels good
and if you lean back against the trunk
under the owl’s gaze
you can feel a trust
and assurance in everything
in spite of everything
you have experienced or read
about Doomsday and Destruction

It is as if the tree stood in your heart
In its crown there is a gentle murmuring
and the flute sounds
and the owl’s eye is yellow like a sun.

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