The Stage

What lay in the minds of ghosts
is there still,
and will remain—
the restless sea’s identity,
or the world in grey,
while dogs keep talking.
 
On earth there is no true self;
in the darkness of personality
there is sin,
and stain in the name of justice.
From morning,
everything sits powdered and posed.
 
Wisdom’s disgust
has no cremation,
as if this were not a stage at all,
but only leadership—
and like the climber’s upward reach,
it frees the imagination
while I remain
formless,
forever.
 
I weave dreams
in the uncertain clamour—
a linguist,
hearing voices drift
from behind the stage:
I was here,
seeking the dissected life.
False speech
brought many promises,
yet today, truth is such
that not one line
made it to the manuscript’s page
in the end.
 
The mask will stay on the face—
that is certain;
from the shadows
words turn bestial.
Identity hides flawless,
while sins and deeds
spread their wings
into the mind’s strange realm.
 
In darkness,
ghosts are unseen,
just as the heart in man
is unseen in its unbearable fall;
no one will see it
in this summer’s heat—
it remains in hiding.
 
The stage builds its own reflection;
the man arrives
with mystery and joy,
laughing layer upon layer,
clapping hands,
slapping backs
in his own role.
 
And his own falsehood
is pierced
by a thousand kinds
of criticism.