Prince Swami Sune Saligia at the Crumpling of Days
At the end of days
in blinding coffee mornings,
you could be no better accompanied
than by Maestros Italo Calvino & Jorge Luis Borges,
in the never failing remembrance
of noble Prince Swami Sune Saligia,
reciting Dylan Thomas's A Refusal to Mourn the Death,
By Fire, of a Child in London,
and Giacomo Leopardi's To Angelo Mai
on his Discovery of Cicero's Book of the Republic (1820),
surrounded by flowering dandelions
in a hitchhike ditch
on the western outskirts of Shitville
in the glorious year of 1967,
on our way out to young Lady Ann Arika
in Vrena parish
At the crumpling of days,
spay through the cracks of infinity
at that scene;
Prince Swami Sune Saligia's crocked beatnik nose
over his thin, quivering mustache,
his jet-black bangs falling,
reflecting the sun,
his metallic voice resounding through the decades,
hypnotizing the little group
like J. C. the crowd at the Mount,
the bright yellow dandelions competing
with the midday June star,
the blooming cumulus congestus boiling on high
like fairytale palaces in the sky,
swallows and swifts whistling past
in magic arithmetics, measuring space
in senseless passages above and around,
cutting through spiritual materalism
like glowing knife-edges in the air;
this recollection of the 1967 Prince Swami Sune Saligia
etched into ornamentism & idealization,
flaring across the horizon of events
like burning posterity,
my face itching in the daylight
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2025-08-20 at 11:15
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