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  • The Wallaby Track

    Kovács-Cohner Róbert képe

    he steps off the highway, he leaves his old bike
    in the rays of the dawn on a moonlit night
    the road ended here and the hill leads up high
    to an endless field with rippling cornwaves afar

    the Wallaby Track is his last trip ahead
    as the wind whispers, a nod of a head
    shadows walz, crickets drum on his head
    a church fades away, last moan of the dead

    a tired pilgrim gets up on the hill
    he puts down his backpack, no sound, no peril
    he sits in the grass, drinks a bottle of wine
    smokes a last cigar and he stops the time

    with a snap of his fingers and everything stands
    as if it were thousand years in essence
    he gets off his clothes and he gets off his heart
    a cynical smile in an asylum's ward

    he picks up a flower which is glooming white
    he looks at it, let it go, watch it fall down
    he reaches the moon and an old song is sang
    and as it starts raining, he waves his hand

    he thanks the cool breeze and he thanks the cruel stars
    he thanks the foolish and he thanks the harsh
    he thanks the symphony that's never complete
    he thanks the longing rails that never meet

    he lights out his cigar, he takes one more step
    as yesterday and the day after it wed
    he's feeling light, as the dark night still cries
    he puts down his booklet, his verbs and his nouns

    he stands still, facing the snickering sky,
    he doesn't ask how, he doesn't ask why
    he mutters his last words “for the day I met you”
    and now he just stands, he stands like a statue

    he stands on the endless field, the moon up and high
    he lets the rain smooth his face, lifts up his arms
    the world is still kicking, and no one is harmed
    he stands on the world's edge, naked and unarmed

    an endless shiver hangs still in the still life,
    the death of a child, weary blood on a knife:
    the roads led nowhere but he dreams as he dies
    a cloistered echo under the crimson skies

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