By: Fredrik M Zander

Yesterday’s saturation’s all a memory now,
And the promise of this shining day
Seems to have left me jaded for a moment
Before I took my eyes where I put them,
In compelling grass,
Outside the shallow cave
The other day it seems;
Lapis Lazuli shimmering…
A soft whirlwind;
And the crowns of trees play
Muddle, muddle
With my senses
While dusk awaits
On its shifting phases
Of variable wings.

It’s on the wind for certain.
A dim moon is anticipated
Only to conjure up a night;
A diminished satellite forgotten,
While bringing sleep.

(The nimbus of a gate)

Wide asleep in unknown havens,
A Morian box awaits…
Will the key suffice or suffer
From this dreamscape?
An ocean to part company with,
Where seagulls never hover;
Prometheus and an eagle.

(An interim in chaotic motion of fern)

The Greek cradle I was born in is set ashore;
And Spartan waves of incense
Did speak to me of innocence
Once upon a brittle time;
Why not speak of feathers yet to be?
A bonfire gone in multiverse,
The multiversa open;
Prodigies in becoming?

Then the chant of Coptic lands,
Where pyramids dwell in Mathematical precision.
Waters unfolded and the priestess once there
Is lost
In the riddle of her own mind…

A Moiran in waiting; behold the mysteries,
Of ancient worlds and beautiful spaces,
Butterflies in metaphor air…
I would fly with them still.
Night is a wildfire; glowing eyes
Seek a raven’s treasure, not a faraway beach,
And the Bosporus opens the gates of the horizon
That can only be traversed in dream or transmigration.
It speaks in a Sufis’ circle;
The long forgotten Persia
We call yesterday…

Hagia Sophia speaks to me
From a distance;
As if I could sacrifice
Being a mere one
Among the myriad creatures;
Lao speaks in the soft cloth
Of yesterday’s anticipation;
Was anyone ever there?
Amritsar shines also from afar,
In high air
Where the refreshed eye of my
Sometimes tarnished imagination
Now and then will be…

Let east and west intertwine;
Fertilize futures yet to be seen…
Let us not believe in mere angels
And devils…
Bring on the lights,
Of ancient tales
That whisper sweet music
In our forgotten ears…
The blue mosque;
Constant in Opal hindsight,
To make the future shine!

There is no more sound;
Only moist voices
From the humid haven
Of my feather-like mind;
A siren wind passes gently,
And so I hesitate once more
At the gate of it all;
Just like it was the end of the line….