We are infinitely more than the shell of the self in which we wrap ourselves at a particular moment and in a particular situation. Our conscious self is merely a construct with which we shield our mind from the overwhelming nature of our myriad forms and possibilities of being.
At Midnight
At midnight, at midnight,
I awoke wrapped in a shroud.
The moon spread its translucent arms
into the silent circle dance
of ghosts, who in their foggy garments
like a colourless kaleidoscope
glided past my coffin bed,
the gloomy star round which they whirled.
Sometimes a distant laughter,
a subdued sobbing or a spark of joy,
a secret song, a hidden pain
resounded from the phantoms' dance.
Then, like a dream, it all dissolved
into the dark, where one last time
pale faces told of longing, love and loss
before they gently melted into mist.
In the meanders of the moonlight
I still felt the frenzied flutter
of the swirling spirits' robes.
And so I called out into the fog:
"Who are you, weightless strangers?"
And whispering, the night wind said: "You."
Image: Karl Wilhelm Diefenbach (1851 – 1913): The Fairy Dance (1895); Wikimedia commons
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