A Garden Walk

O oppression of Sky,
sloping pavement, petty pebbles
'on the sidewalk
like a thousand broken Moons.
O cracks in the pavement
like veins, O street-lamps
magnificent, eternal,
speaking with soft Light
as gold as the Sun, but unperturbed
and resurrecting. 
O World, how you defy
description, and yet invite
such connections to be made
that I see Unity, no more,
in your every fragrant part. 

O darkness of the neighbourhood
inviting Light, tomorrow's
sweeping Dawn
to take you and burn
with the agony of change,
no story spoken, but
a few shall have it said
in tongues the same. 


Here stands,
puncturing out from under the Earth,
the very old seed of a nascent Tree
now fully grown, I think. 
It is an outstretched palm
toward God, beckoning rain
to be released, to be delivered
into its Soul. It is inseparably combined
with the Earth and the grass,
it is pure, it is kindly and radiant
in its immaculate filth. 
It is a Tree of great virtue
because it asks, always,
and receives therefore
not only rain, but the Sun,
in all her brilliant constancy,
her ecstatic radiance. 
It is a message and a sign. 
It is mine own
both to bear and become
a Tree of great virtue
myself, remade into the product
of the earnest wishes and sublime
resurrections of a thousand gods. 
It is enshrined within the everlasting
Heart of Time, like
forever; past and future
wedded together
beneath the Stars and the Sky,
becoming One: Here it is. 


O burning streetlamp
brilliant, illuminating the World,
if thou wast only not obstructed
in thy Light-shining with fire by the Trees,
whose littering leaves thou dost ignite,
aflame and angry, I presume,
at thy restrictions, thy probations,
held back from destiny like a bastard. 
O streetlamp, burning
brilliant, illuminating,
I feel a part of you,
I feel as though I understand you,
your concealed misery, outlasting
in the guise of purest fury,
unsullied by pain, but
you see, you know it does not exist,
that there is no rage in this World
that is not born of agony such as ours. 
You know this.
I know this when I see you
as I see myself, strangled,
entangled within the Trees,
poor things
only trying to embrace me
and together we are blazing gods,
without them I'd be a damned thing,
damned to oblivion and isolation,
forsaken to an Eternity
and no one with which to share its
prevalent fruits, both golden and allowed. 

after Squalor Victoria

Please reload

  • patreon_logo_black
  • Instagram - Black Circle

Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020


BC, Canada