30. Questions not to be asked from the voice of experience
What do we know except nothing?
What's the worth of all knowledge but air?
How true is my love in your absence?
What dreams can ever come true?
Reduce me to basics and truth,
and nothing remains of what in me is human,
since all that is human and live is in vain,
just a hazard connection, a random engagement,
a blow in the air of a wind without trace,
just a normal nonsensical dream
to be easily obliterated at once,
like the puff of a long ago vanished forgottenness.
Is love then no more than the vilest of self-deceits?
Why do we love if not to be deceived?
— Your questions, my son, are not to be asked,
since the answer can but be the infinite silence of nothing.
So love while you can, and use your love well,
and at best you might get some good poetry out of it.
— No, you are wrong, old man, I must object,
your experience is false if your poetry is all you get,
for if something is poetry, then there was meaning behind it,
and then it was worth it and can't be reduced any more
to anything less than the truth of your feelings' dynamics
of more universal commotion than all supernovas together.
— And what, then, is that worth, the puff of all novas together?
— Exactly, that is what I mean:
one moment of love and the shortest of dreams
is of more vital consequence than the Big Bang.
Poetry by Christian Lanciai
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Written on 2006-08-15 at 11:38
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