{Eight} “nam tu sola potes tranquilla pace invare mortalis”


You will arrive at an unknown place; carrying a small shimmer of hope in a black box. Things will seem familiar and views will be immense; immensely different – so different…

As you stroll down a desolate beach the raging power of the waves will call you closer, call you in…

Salt will sting your eyes and words, churned out to sea;  with only pebbles, shells and a small box riding the waves to hear your inner soliloquy:

…Words, however futile
and insignificant, need
to be anchored in our fate
by participating in sacred
rites of communion.
I, for one, long for rescue,
turn towards my life’s shore,
to you, to the question to which
there is no reply, with quivering
voice of foolish hope and numb
desire, with Eliot’s Ash-Wednesday
whine (“and let my cry come
into thee”), like Lucretium lost
in your mirror image (“nam tu sola
potes tranquilla pace invare mortalis”).

And you, ocean, shall remain,
to divide us and unite us,
one bird flying back and forth,
weaving dawns into sunsets…

excerpt from: The Distance – Piero Scaruffi

{Mid 2012}

“Soms wil ek my hart iewers los
iewers ver van mense weg
Soos iewers in die diep see
of die Knysna bos
Net die verste weg van die naaste aan my
net die mees onbekende plek verby
wens ek soms dat ek
my hart daar kans los”
– Lize Beekman


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