NO STILL PATH
Alas, there is no still path in my soul,
I being evil, none of memory;
No path, untenanted by fiend or ghoul,
Where those I have loved best touch wings and sigh,
And passing enter silently the place
Of dream, illumined by bright fruit, and light,
That circles from the always brightest face
Of love itself, and dissipates the night.
There is no path, there is no path at all,
Unless perhaps where abstract things have gone
And precepts rise and metaphysics fall,
And principles abandoned stumble on.
No path, but as it were a river in spate
Where drowning forms, downswept, gesticulate.
■ Malcolm Lowry
sur Terres de femmes ▼
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→ 9 décembre 1947 | Malcolm Lowry, La Traversée du Panama