We open doors,
close doors,
pass through doors,
and reach at the end of our only journey
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .no city,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .no harbor—
the train derails,
the ship sinks
the plane crashes.
The map is drawn on ice.
But if I could
. . . . .begin this journey all over again,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .I would.
Translated by Randy Blasing & Mutlu Konuk
“The map is drawn on ice.” What a great line.
It’s a poem I have tacked up in my den along with Dylan’s “Maybe they’ll get me and maybe they won’t, But not tonight and it won’t be here.” Somehow they both comfort me.
Indeed..!!
Glad you agree.
Wow. Incredible. Thanks for sharing this.
It’s a way to view living, din’t you think?
Reblogged this on Leonard Durso.
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