The Door: Anticipation of Wisdom

One day you will see clearly:
you’ve been knocking on a door without a house.
You’ve been waiting, shivering, yelling
words of badly concealed and excessive hope.
Where you saw a house, there’ll be just another side.

One day you will see clearly:
there is no one on the other side,
except – as ever – the jubilant ocean
which won’t shatter
ceramically like a dream
when you and I shatter.

But not yet. Now
you wait outside, watching
the blue arches of mornings
that will break but are now perfect.
Underneath on tiptoe
pass the faces, speaking to you,
saying ‘you’, ’you’, ‘you’,
smiling, waving, arriving
in unfailing chronology.

One day, you will doubt the exactness
of your movements,
the accuracy of your sudden age.
You will ache for slow beauty
to save you from your quick, quick life.

But not yet. Now
you say ‘you’, there is always ‘you’,
‘you’ fills the yawn of time and surrounds you, until
you knock the door down, one day,
and walk over to the other side
where
nothing will be revealed.

But not yet. Now let’s say
you see a door, and knock,
and wait for your knocks to be heard.

Kapka Kassabova

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