Flags
Leave these ships with the big
white sails that hardly are wobbling.
Leave this cry of the gulls full of
alarming
longing – let the lungs swallow the wind
coming.
Leave the eyes, let them travel beyond
the horizons –
falling leaves.
And find that angle of the time – of
love
when “Here and there does not
matter”*
and that grief which hollows out the air
becomes the jump,
becomes wing beat,
the water deep in the tank,
the entire while of moving unmovable.
Flags!
*T.S. Eliot
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2013
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