An Old Illusion

I am afraid there is no home. Not anymore. Home was a place in our minds that protected us; protection is, today, a fantasy. Protection is a wish drowning in reality too ugly to call it by name.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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1 Response to An Old Illusion

  1. Juan Flores says:

    Well said, John … your piece reminds me of Dylan’s old poem…..

    Never until the mankind making
    Bird beast and flower
    Fathering and all humbling darkness
    Tells with silence the last light breaking
    And the still hour
    Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

    And I must enter again the round
    Zion of the water bead
    And the synagogue of the ear of corn
    Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
    Or sow my salt seed
    In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

    The majesty and burning of the child’s death.
    I shall not murder
    The mankind of her going with a grave truth
    Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
    With any further
    Elegy of innocence and youth.

    Deep with the first dead lies London’s daughter,
    Robed in the long friends,
    The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
    Secret by the unmourning water
    Of the riding Thames.
    After the first death, there is no other.

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