The hope of the moon

The hope of the moon

The future is bleak,

the future is black,

tell us that only what weeps is true,

authentic only what despairs

that only what stings is beautiful,

Dystopias planted in the brain,

The contemporary is essentially that

they seem to be sprouts of consciousness,

they are only seeds of surrender

elegy of inevitable defeat

But we need schools of hope in this despairing world,

we need gyms of hope in this saddened world,

we need the light of hope in the darkness of the present,

without hope one is already dead inside,

one rots standing,

one’s heart dries up even if it beats

‘Hope is a dream made awake’

Hope is not illusion,

is not lightness of mind or blind optimism,

is a spiritual act,

is the art of seeing the sun beyond the clouds,

spring beyond winter,

life beyond death

hope is alchemical power

and the moon is our friend

The moon is the most powerful symbol of hope

In the darkest night,

when the sun seems to have gone out forever

submerged in the swamp,

the horizon is mud,

and then I cry,

and cry out,

and cry out in despair,

then I fall silent, lost in the blackest nothingness

‘The night is darkest just before dawn’

But one has to find strength in one’s eyelids,

open one’s eyes and throw them to the sky,

only thus does one tear the veil open

We listen to the moon with our eyes

its rays whisper like mirrors

‘I am here, I reflect its light, it will return’.

In the darkest night the moon is the sun’s promise to us, ‘I am here, I will return’.

It is lamp lit in the room of humanity

It is memory of light and truth

That’s what poetry is for,

that’s what art is for,

to remember what has been,

to cherish what will be

Poets are wonderful fools,

they don’t stop pointing their finger at the moon,

even when all they see is mud

poets will die – but they never die – verses will fade

And when all will seem silence,

a new day will dawn

and those who have kept hope in the night

will recognise the voice of the sun

‘To hope is better than not to hope, and to set oneself to work is better than to despair’

(Goethe)

The contemporary drowns in despair

and revels in it,

builds cathedrals of cynicism

and monuments to nothingness

The postcontemporary sprouts instead,

laughing and obstinate,

in the field of hope,

like white flowers in the night,

like a full moon that refuses to disappear