Imagination and Reality

It goes, it drifts away,
wherever the two eyes long to wander,
there follows the mind.
 
Visions within the inner chamber
count the mist of futures,
yet all that is precious—
nothing remains behind.
 
Far away, the white peaks of mountains,
the waves upon the level sea,
the unknown yet beautiful earth
abides, eternal in its disguise.
 
It goes, it drifts away,
wherever imagination dares to wander,
there follows the mind.
 
Far away it journeys,
yet sight sometimes returns,
to the hidden chamber
where the body dwells,
in sweat, in blood, in refuse;
where aesthetics of beauty creep by stealth
into the marbled chambers of pain.
Today survives
beneath tomorrow’s haste.
 
The return of imagination is never straight;
a tale must be told to it again and again—
and in that faith, like a migratory bird,
it shall one day set forth
upon the vision’s path,
rushing into the unknown beauty of earth,
where the reality of existence
is none but survival itself:
day by day, in sickness, in sorrow, in silence,
life is endured piece by piece.
 
And there—
when imagination returns to awareness,
a great fear descends.
Fear.