Gate to truth
and we go through.
we can see the Atlantic Ocean
to hold the Americas
gently, steadily in foamy fingers.
Quite a sight.
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.
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:
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
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.