There sits the makings of a fool
among the stars.
There he sits planting dreams
upon the sky.
Would there be dreams there?
Would there be planets, stars,
and wheels;
rotating, revolving,
and pressing forth?
Would there be a women there
made of incandescent space?
Would there be a man
with grizzled eyes,
who drives and turns the tides?
And would there be a dream
that germinates above?

To the sky he gives a gift of smoke,
slowly birthing from his mouth.
Curling into blackness,
like the puss – spewing forth
from sundered flesh.
Oh, a dream!
A dream filled humour
treks the stars and veins of heaven!
A dream! Would there be a dream
resounding in his voice as he calls?
Would there be an echo of his dream?
Would the stars present themselves
as a twinkle in the eye
tugging at lips, and –oh!

Or would they die?
Would they fester too long
about this blight?
Would the dharma come screeching
to a halt?
Would every lingam shatter and cease
to carry the force that drives his dreams?
Oh, would they die?
Would they shatter?

Waar kom sy drome dan vandaan?
In waste brandende baarmoeder
of sterekruik is hul gestig?
Om waste berg het hul verklink?
In waste somersnag was hul bewusgemaak?
In wie se hart vertoef hul einde?

So draai en waai die wind dan weer;
snags in die dongas van sy siel.
In daai holtes van metaal
en koue gange…

So saai en maai die sade weer;
in die hemelboog se stilte.
Dan lê ons saam,
en gaan verlate na die maan.

So draai en waai die winde weer;
en weerklink sy straf en drome.



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