Infinite

Infinite by Rini Angeliantari
acrylic on paper

The seed will grow into a tree, you said
but no bird would ever stay, I said
even a quaint light would stepped dead
on the very branch of that tree you said

Look, at the evening star's red
silence is the music they make
what if the symphony is bled
by our hands knitting its thread?

There are no stairs to climb back
the ache of slow, delirious joy
"What if we took a visit to the tree?
Can we climb it and find the glee?"

Let us just go to the meadow
tiptoeing through the still air
We can run and run and grow
like a child who laughed and scared

the maroon sky is craving the yellow
moon, glowing its smoke like an old
actress

maybe we will wake and find us
exhausted
we are dreaming of tree and infinite bareness.


2014

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