Brahma's Sarabands II
I stand in a crystal-minute
within time’s honeycomb,
walls breathing light
The dead press through the windows.
Ruined land.
Memory bends the roads backward.
The heart coughs.
Fate works in silence
among copper roofs and northern coffee steam.
Empty houses howl at the horizon
Day folds inward –
a thunder-petal collapsing.
At river mouths
Brahma hums a creation-dance.
Truth walks naked, indifferent.
The first Now glows with sacred absence
Age stirs its grey spoon through the basin of days
In Singi’s cold breath, vision hangs
like glass souls on their nerves,
waiting for sweetness and fire
Suddenly I rise –
a ragged angel opposed,
flesh-laughter and filth,
holy rivers bursting from every gate.
Body becomes cosmos –
vomit, piss, seed, light –
a ridiculous, radiant god
crowning morning with a wild cry.
And the choirs of sky
sing not psalms
but Dylan on an airstrip to nowhere,
toward a village of dust and miracle.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2025-11-01 at 12:16
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