I
once saw Hank Williams follow a flock of blackbirds
into
a dark field. Later that night I saw Bob Dylan perform
in
an old barn with candles for footlights.
He
wore a white stetson.
The
stage was dim. It was an impromptu appearance.
He
wasn't on the bill.
He
seemed to enjoy his anonymity.
His
voice was blue and hoarse.
It
cast a spell.
As
long as we are in this world,
the
past is near to us; we can return to it anytime.
The
shape and shadow of things may have changed
but
the essence is the same.
In
our dreams, we can visit countries we have never seen,
we
can speak with strangers as if they were our friends.
Who
wants grand possessions that fade away?
Why
build walls we do not not need?
Why
long for homes we will never own?
We
hold the clouds in our hands.
There
is no end to what we can see,
there
is no end to what we can do.
