There
is a country
without guarded borders,
a land that does not issue visas,
eminently accessible, one would say.
This nation
unmarked on maps
beyond the imagination
of cartographer and politician
is bathed in tropical sunlight,
watered by beauty,
chiselled with extra care,
a work of art, one would say.
It is un-peopled though
or less-peopled, shall we say?
For its entry points, so evident,
are seen only by the blind,
detected only by the mindless;
it is a place of insanity
an impossible territory
reserved, I like to think,
for those whose love
spill over the reservoir called possible.
Reserved, I like to think,
among others,
for you and I.
a land that does not issue visas,
eminently accessible, one would say.
This nation
unmarked on maps
beyond the imagination
of cartographer and politician
is bathed in tropical sunlight,
watered by beauty,
chiselled with extra care,
a work of art, one would say.
It is un-peopled though
or less-peopled, shall we say?
For its entry points, so evident,
are seen only by the blind,
detected only by the mindless;
it is a place of insanity
an impossible territory
reserved, I like to think,
for those whose love
spill over the reservoir called possible.
Reserved, I like to think,
among others,
for you and I.
[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
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