Читать книгу The Skin of Meaning - Keith Flynn - Страница 18

No one gets the life they deserve.

Eternity is not the endless passage

of time, uninterrupted.

It is contained in a single moment,

where time has stopped,

a frozen moat,

a conversation with a stone.

Each year a column, slowly tilting.

“God is the only architect,”

sd. Gaudi. “I merely copy.”

He became a studious imitator

of the tree, the river, the wind.

Light builds everything,

strings of light

torn from sheer blocks,

streamers inviting you

to reconnect them;

the tails of comets,

the rocket’s smoky trail

mixed among vaporous clouds,

mist off a boiling pot,

the searching vine’s restless rivulets.

Gaudi was killed by a streetcar,

seditiously moored to its tracks,

unable to pass through him,

or follow his immense light.

Buildings are made of music,

rising with purpose,

filling the air’s geometry with forms.

Cities should be built

from the worship

of nothing in particular,

and filled with the feelings

of its people, the only mortar

that can reinforce the beams.

From this I make my life a bell

and hurl its chime

across the expanse,

and a gong of years develops,

buttressed by nothing.

The spool of that life

is filled with temporary commotions,

knowing that a human being

in love with mystery

is never finished