Top Notes
Heart Notes
Base Notes
Rate
Collection
Souk
Classify
Notes11/29/2019
8.0 7.0 8.0 9.5/10
Siebenkäs
0 Reviews
Translated automatically Show original
Siebenkäs
It came from...
His heart was still beating.
Quietly and undaunted, it chugged its way to itself.
Far, so far, so inconceivable, terrible, inconceivable far
was the path it had taken.
Further than a poor little human creature
it could ever imagine.
But now it was there.
His energy was there and she was alive.
And so it had a very, very tiny little bit
of all the unheard-of, never seen, odourless things
across the abysses of many galaxies.
To finally pass it on.
For it had found a host by whom it took shape
could. A human child named Belletrud.
Now it could spread.
Now they could also give it a name,
one that perhaps reminded a little of the
who, like herself, had seen things you can't name.
Like Jimi Hendrix or Syd Barret or Ian Curtis. And a few others.
Opium.
Not an easy name. More like a makeshift.
But better than none.
And now they could also find words for the elements,
that worked in him.
They might call it an anise. Jojannesberry. Vanilla.
Would it compare to their kitchen spices.
Would use words like "Orient".
Would discover an aura in it that one partly spicy,
can call it partly soft and also sweet.
Maybe they'd find it "strong," too.
On some days.
She'd be surprised it didn't always seem the same.
Some might like exactly that.
Also something balsamic, comforting and pleasantly foreign
they would perceive, at the same time an amazing
Contradiction of childlike fruitfulness and a certain
Strictness of strange woods, strange resins.
And a strange, ambiguous, mysterious mysticism,
but also a curious freshness.
All at once and yet not confused.
How sorted and brought into harmony by an incomprehensible
ordering power.
Perhaps this power was also in the fact that each individual
its uniqueness, its uniqueness.
The complete superfluousness of any adjustment.
Or maybe in letting strange questions sprout up.
"Might a great part of the misfortune be in the fact when you're happy?"
"Why are the holes the main thing on a sieve?"
All over it would reveal its secret but never.
Maybe that was his secret.
Or a part of it.
And a part of you.
His heart's still beating.
Quietly and fearlessly it chugs along.
(Like yours.)
Quietly and undaunted, it chugged its way to itself.
Far, so far, so inconceivable, terrible, inconceivable far
was the path it had taken.
Further than a poor little human creature
it could ever imagine.
But now it was there.
His energy was there and she was alive.
And so it had a very, very tiny little bit
of all the unheard-of, never seen, odourless things
across the abysses of many galaxies.
To finally pass it on.
For it had found a host by whom it took shape
could. A human child named Belletrud.
Now it could spread.
Now they could also give it a name,
one that perhaps reminded a little of the
who, like herself, had seen things you can't name.
Like Jimi Hendrix or Syd Barret or Ian Curtis. And a few others.
Opium.
Not an easy name. More like a makeshift.
But better than none.
And now they could also find words for the elements,
that worked in him.
They might call it an anise. Jojannesberry. Vanilla.
Would it compare to their kitchen spices.
Would use words like "Orient".
Would discover an aura in it that one partly spicy,
can call it partly soft and also sweet.
Maybe they'd find it "strong," too.
On some days.
She'd be surprised it didn't always seem the same.
Some might like exactly that.
Also something balsamic, comforting and pleasantly foreign
they would perceive, at the same time an amazing
Contradiction of childlike fruitfulness and a certain
Strictness of strange woods, strange resins.
And a strange, ambiguous, mysterious mysticism,
but also a curious freshness.
All at once and yet not confused.
How sorted and brought into harmony by an incomprehensible
ordering power.
Perhaps this power was also in the fact that each individual
its uniqueness, its uniqueness.
The complete superfluousness of any adjustment.
Or maybe in letting strange questions sprout up.
"Might a great part of the misfortune be in the fact when you're happy?"
"Why are the holes the main thing on a sieve?"
All over it would reveal its secret but never.
Maybe that was his secret.
Or a part of it.
And a part of you.
His heart's still beating.
Quietly and fearlessly it chugs along.
(Like yours.)
15 Replies
