With My Wings Hanging (II)
I carry a night of stars
inside the ceiling,
appearing when the lamp dies
and I surrender
But when humanity gathers around its great light,
rising like a single breath into flight,
I stand outside the circle of the species,
on a mountain,
my wings hanging,
my eyes wet,
while the sphere of longing growls and turns,
its edge dissolving into darkness,
and my belonging erodes
And when the old shamans speak of the infinite,
of the All that never ends,
never empties,
never fits a thought –
where even God may exist
beyond every image –
I return to my small sky of stars
on the ceiling,
appearing once more
at the end of life,
as the light goes out
and gravity becomes rest
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-02-07 at 10:36
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