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ARTS AND CULTURE

Feast of the fantastic

  • 20 December 2011

Your heart

The doors open wide to a feast of the fantastic,And the host, in his generosity, opens his hands, fingers dance.An invitation to come, to join the table,Which is wide and long, spread with the breads of hope.Sometimes the music is modern, sometimes ancient,But it is strong and regular, keeps good time.

This place is bigger than any kingdom,It opens out, boundary-less, to everyone everywhere.No sweatshop here. It doesn't matter how many come,Or will come, and the skateboarders will always get a seatAt the banquet, where they will taste the wine and foodLearn to sing with the host and rejoice in his good.

It is a heart that has the history for art,And so the ceilings will be skies of songs.

 

Your hands

If you couldn't speak, your fingers would,Irresistible, I have seen them make a poem,As they led the children to the centre,When we were all betwitched and enlarged,Dilated with the delicacy of the dance of the senses,They are petitioners of grace and gravity, of beauty.

It takes fine-tuning to fiddle with the dial's antic,To hear the muse and the crescendo to music,To engraft the one that owns a body of oneness.We watch in wonder at the way we gain accessThrough the clarity, the charity into the realm that flows,Where feeling flourishes and love just grows.

They dance with ten-point rhythm, they open skies,And the songs that cascade are so wise.

 

Your eyes

Every time I see your tears,I see the hurt of fears, the forgotten years,But, I also see the colours of a jewelThat sparkles despite the power of the cruel.

Then, with the swelling, I feel the deep,A deep, so deep, that calls us all to weep.For we, like it or not, are bound one to one.And, if not, there is but none.

As the globes of salt trickle down your cheekThe glow of your skin rises to its peak.Suddenly, it is as if a weightHad been lifted to an even greater height.

When we embrace and consecrate the gloryThen we can celebrate the dreaming in the story.

 

Your feet

And so we come to the extremitiesWhich are, in fact, a sure source of sensibilities,Those feet that can walk on the hot sand,In the rivers