☀ Today's Poem: "Feast" Tomaž Šalamun

On the path of all spheres,
on steep cliffs overgrown with segments of color,
marked with the chalk that children
broke, we watch the pieces
rising,
compact as if under the pressure of water,
their slow takeoff: markings,
white curtains raised.
There are no problems with breathing,
right here, in this circle,
there are no problems with breathing
and also ahead, in front, it seems
as if equilibrium is built in, unbreakable;
cavities constantly expand,
expand and narrow,
as the activity of an unknown (imaginable)
respiratory system enlarges under a microscope.
Nostalgia, night, melancholy, laughter
falling like snow are invalid,
all parallel, all there, which can be
reached from here, the entire "path" in between.
We watch the reactions to this situation,
slowly, gradually, the outer leaves of an artichoke
slowly float away.
We can imprint any memories of the concepts.
There was a line.
It was there exactly because we couldn't
use it.
Whatever the concept, they're all arranged
concentrically, near, far.
The spot, which was an elevator, a beam,
is protected in advance by inviolability.
Initiation is unbelievably slow work,
most similar to the rotation of summer, winter, and the stars.
Is this how we ate?
Did we constantly prepare food?
Now it's enough that a small crack in the process remains
and everything regenerates unbelievably fast.
Whoever keeps a diary of growth and sacrifice,
look!
Maybe many can read it
because light falls around,
but of course nothing falls here, it goes outward.
The center, the source of energy that we observe in this
process, is empty. The universe "vanishes" the locus, eats it.
Energy, not consciousness, leaps, (is) in the negative.
So it's all in something, which, because
of the concept, can be roughly called a grain of sand
and the entire space is only a vestige,
like sawdust from sawing wood.
In one cubic micromillimeter
there are infinite galaxies, and each with this huge
space, with nights, moons, suns, with constellations
that baffle us and press our membrane.
Intergalactic, and, of course, these
"injected" communications are also just pressure.
Beside this window, in this window
there are still countless other civilizations,
countless other cosmological systems.
So it's not about suffering,
but about layers.
I'm showing this here.