Life of Man life is very strange: porcelain in the morning, ashes in the evening, with some inclinations near the edge: to feel a bit of the depths, to see how it looks like in the abyss, what it remains of destinies. A vase open to the sky. Figures. Crumbs picked on themselves, crammed like candles on a godless altar. Lost claims office. Silence of the waves. A Sunday morning at the crucible of nothing.
We just keep each other company. This is what remains: a fragile grace, a whisper in the ear. Fluttering moths. Moths are not serious. Their flight is uncertain towards a foe clarity, ephemeral spread in time: their little shiny black wings. How much earth to dig for a piece of heaven? A waste. It is hardly ever found. Hidden ecstasy of all that is passing. Fragile little life: dancing and smiling and crying.
Everything at once.
words and image ©Marie Veronika Zorn
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