When the world meets at the bad end,
Eyes remember eyes beneath the plain
Where the dark voice comes and forgets time,
And tigers ramble and chase images
Like paper scraps into a mind's books,
Trying to trap a flying light.
The a sun turns onto a valley path,
That walks with the two towards the end,
As the air plays with looks and talk
Peeling between faces in wind;
Comunion as dew in a rainbow sounds
Like singing drunk in quie snow.
Ask why a diamond counts more
Than the leaves that over a million years
Compress themselves, like art condensed
From life in pain and happiness,
Impoisition and hands bored
Into the background chained sludge,
Breating at fragile hopes, wisps
Of metaphysical silver wound
Into spaces of unfilled possibility.
Now the lark makes sense,
When no longer is it there,
As that morning is no longer,
When it is too late to explain
And all should have been directed
Into action.
Now the faces bounce light 
Like play: certainty breaks
Clouds from the scowling sky,
And cells admit that ecstasy
Burn the rules for feeling.
Under the earth the answer seems
Always to have been, when 
A seed picks a way  to green - 
Ligthed vulnerability.

Poem by Tim Cloudsley

Painting "The Black Flyer Leaving" by Ken Palmer Watercolour on paper 33x52 cm


Tim Cloudsley nació Cambridge, Inglaterra. Es sociologo, escritor y poeta. Trabajó como profesor en la Escuela de Idiomas, de la Universidad Industrial de Santander, Bucaramanga en el ámbito de estudios culturales y literatura.

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