There is no aim in me any more…
Therefore so quiet are my days,
one by one the same and bobbing
like corks of dreaming fishermen,
who forget completely how they come here.
They sit on handrails of a bridge,
surprised by the ease with which
they can balance the emptiness
that always seemed to threaten them
from below their lives.
Their eyes are closed, their lids
are motionless, their faces
are so peaceful and so thin
that the Infinite can surely
walk through them as it may please.
Written by Josef Tomas, a Ryman resident
Photo by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash