Poetry: Statue

“What’s the meaning of this beauty…”

I see it fully,
statue all alone in the desert,
or a field, the scenery is changing
like a light switch on the wall
swinging to the song.

What’s the meaning of this beauty,
standing here alone,
as the seasons changing, and leaves are moving
violently with primal nature in the core;
simple and yet so powerful like a raging storm.

We see this figure every time,
in a dream and in the vivid structured realm,
that we observe as time passes by surroundings,
through our skin and bodies,
then passing through the stone.

A crack appearing
slashing against the noble chest
rain reflecting grimace
on the dreamy painting
of this fading sexy bust.

Injured, sick,
melting candlestick
with funeral procession approaching slowly
passing silent sad surroundings;
only rain – intruder
chanting hymns of terror against
the murky pavement stones.

The script has been in place forever,
working tricky gear
behind the round enormous face,
of father clock and mother time.

Everyone is waiting
but statue not in the mood of fading,
up against the script and stripped dignity,
proudly wearing scar as temperatures fall,
and cold sleeping silence evolves.

Poetry by Vladimir Fischer