Gate to truth

 

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The last gate. Photo: DWV

Gate to truth

.

Gates open

and we go through.

From here

we can see the Atlantic Ocean

curve upwards

to hold the Americas

gently, steadily in foamy fingers.

Quite a sight.

.

We continue

on the walkway

paved with the embalmed,

solidified and hungry faces of saints.

It is rather slippery.

.

Through another gate.

Here we see gambolling green hills,

almost covered with notes

used by composers over the centuries,

grazing peacefully, and occasionally, only occasionally

bleating a quaver, seemingly purposelessly.

.

Walking on,

this time on a walkway

consisting of honest intentions,

compacted and held together

by a glue of credibility.

It is rather sticky and crumbles

at every step.

.

Through another gate:

.

A landscape

consisting of a truly gigantic bedsheet.

It stretches as far as the eye can see.

In the shimmering distance the low shape

of a mountain range that looks vaguely like a row of pillows.

.

White in places, green patches, red and mauve,

lines of brown and glittering blue, rusty orange,

maroon, purple, pink and cyan.

.

What is this?

The guide tells us

that this is where we will

encounter truth.

Only here it is to be found.

.

He hands us each a sundowner.

Relax, he says.

Find yourself a cosy fold and lie down.

You will have to be asleep

to travel here.

About kruger01

Poet, author, translator Grandfather of five. Bonsai grower.
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