Friday, January 13, 2006

The Wisdom of The Body

Of his tiredness

Of his tiredness he thought little
Because being at the edge
Forced him down to depths
He liked to explore
Sometimes,
Only sometimes,
Because he was no hero
In this strange land of
Consciousness.

Of his tiredness he thought little
Because he trusted the words to come,
To form a shape –
To give some shape,
Any shape indeed
To the thoughts
Which tried to trace his feelings.

Of his tiredness he thought little
Because he had tired so much of all
The idle chatter and the false smiles
And the lack of honesty –
And the simple lack of direction,
Save for self-aggrandisement
And simple selfishness
And greed.

Of his tiredness he thought little
Because he had long since ceased
To be weighed down by
The leaden boots of reason.
Rather he was enthralled
By the feelings, pure and simple,
Embedded in his sinews
And the wisdom of his bones.

Of his tiredness he thought little
Because sleep would come
In its own time,
At the right moment,
Because acceptance was always better
Than denial and often better
Than understanding.

Of his tiredness he thought little
Till sleep would come.
How strange it was, he thought,
That the Word was made flesh
In such a bag of bones
As this!


Above I have inserted a photo I took in St Stephen's Green some years back!

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