Turnabout

The leaves are written off the branches,

The sickly venom exorcised is out of me,

Clotted in resin, the festering wounds now closed,

The cloud in front of the sun has driven away.

Where I was lost then and there in length and width,

Has a shape or a form now, a substantial deepness,

I’m not anymore projected in the dark of the shadows,

Now I’m more or less free, floating by in the air.

I’ve covered the cobblestones behind me in red,

I’ve dragged myself here in sweat and a bucket of tears,

Now I’m standing up, on my legs I can see a lot further,

Suddenly my life has projected a new horizon to me.  

In the turnabout is the word, the resurrection of the sentence;

The nothingness is only an empty place that I can fill,

I hear the rustle again of the reed, the river, the roaring,

The water is flowing on a happy song inside of me.  

© Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere

14/01/2016