books of poems
on occasion, one of them will seem as foreign as the collected chants of the shaman for, say, a Siberian tribe. but not usually. sometimes one seems as exotic as a woman dancing almost naked to music whose scales I do not know. sometimes one seems as tame as a conversation overheard but between contemporaries. but most are the records of sensitive visitors to a magical land who meant to tell us what stuck to them there, but find the language they knew so well when they woke up now challenges them. some throw illumination into startled eyes. some awake lullabies you had not remembered in years, maybe in this lifetime. some are as intimate as your own thoughts' lovers. some reveal the thoughts of lions or plumed serpents. some welcome you ashore after long nights of storm. some open your own world to you, but seen through a diamond in someone else's ring. so don't be surprised if your hand shakes a little before you open one, or if you consider postponing that opening just for a little while. when you are more ready. you never will be. nor I.
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