No More Poem by Bengt O Björklund

Seeping through all that
weeping autumn fortifies
in gales and gusts
and weird tools of mystery
I hear bells of sunken ships
calling in mighty mists
that may be called memory
if there was a book of codes.

Unholy thrusts of pain
spears the infants holy hope
of ever joining joy’s
magical master switch
with its true ascendance
into a clear cerulean forever.

Speak you blue blooded tongue
of free versed all that matters;
speak of all things unsaid,
unheard of amongst beasts,
hovering in halls as yet
unmeasured by eyes.

Leaves of jaded age fold
as they should
but the soaked soil
knows no other direction
than the downward
that finally spells
your own faded name.

Thus I know
that in between
what goes on
and what really happens
there are eyes
that cry for no more.