Between the shattered lines he could not see the faulting
The eyelids folded, to be unfolded again
The city, what should the city be more of
Devours his hand, the flame
Melt into ashes the embrace of arms
Into ashes, the sweating sweats
Melt into embrace of arms
Into sweating sweats, the ashes
Into the moor he runs
Where the cry of conflagration is called, recalled
Enticed in such interaction
To dedicate the self to the moor
Too long, incredibly too long, the blossom of daisy
The time left for growth, thus too short
Hey where are you going
To the Heaven.
Deflect off the color of his hair, the city lights
Wandering about the truth, shaking and the hypocrisy, shaking
Dances with the conflagration, the bookstore across the street
And the books in it, and the words and
punctuations and notations in them And smoke.
Hey are you coming back
Probably not.
The other side of palm and orchid, buried his secrets
Oath and lies, all sink down into people’s ears
One ear, one ear
and another
Grows larger, the ear
Smaller, smaller
the mouth
He loses his ear and mouth
His nose, hidden underneath the ground
His eyes, towards the sky
Hey are you ok
Between the shattered lines he could not see the faulting
The eyelids unfolded, to be folded again
The city, which in the city is not so much enough
Devours his hand, the flame
And tongue. Embrace. Sweat. Ashes.
Hey the End.
The imagery came to me when I was reading The Crucible and The Stranger over the last summer. They are both abandoned by their community, by the society, and by some “correctness ” that is not correct. They are both going to be executed and finally they attempt to find redemption in faith. What they find, however, is that faith does not exist, because it is also an artful creation by those people who are sending them to be executed. Or, when “people” can decide the nature of someone’s faith, faith ceases to exist. And faith (or social norm/justice in the case of Meursault in The Stranger) becomes a tool to destroy the innocence and prove the absence of itself. But when John Proctor and Meursault are abandoned even by “faith”, they seem to achieve another type of salvation through extreme individuality. “Can destruction and redemption coexist?” is the question that I have asked after reading these two novels and try to discuss in this poem.
The destruction of humanity and truth is like a conflagration that devours everything. When John Proctor and Meursault confront their tragic endings with composure, or anyone who is misunderstood by the larger community, they have that conflagration inside their bodies. They are torn apart by the temperature and energy. They have died once when they are still alive, so they are no longer afraid of death. After they die physically, however, their souls may continue the life.
Be First to Comment