The passenger
By Viginia Jasmin Pasalo
CONVERSATION between dust particles in the sky, blown by the morning breeze to a destination still unknown, perhaps to settle on a dessert, whirled in a storm at sea, or thrust to blind a human eye.
P1: So you have a song for that tree that lives in you?
P2: How can a big tree live in a dust like me?
P1: Like an ocean can live in a raindrop.
P2: No clouds, no raindrop. Why trees don’t write poetry about dust?
P1: Trees speak in many ways. They are poems and songs that come from the depths of the earth.
P2: Trees, like dust, we are only passengers on earth.
P1: We are the earth. The earth is a passenger in the universe.
Antimatter
Friday morning at 1:04, a sudden roar
from a distance not so far away from the clouds
closer to the top of trees, hovering for some time
on purpose, to drop a passenger
he came, and here again, he brings
nothing, but the eloquence of his body
a magnetite drawing to itself, pieces of me
into the void where time forgets to move
where guilt and thoughts gets burned
along with the consummation of desires
we are the same, dancing in the fire
of the wilderness, in a forest of stars
trying to contain, trying to tame
the vast energies of the skies
you and I, parts of the same I
the positive and the negative
destined to collide,
suck in the breath of the other,
and die very quickly, in a burst of light.
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