We live on the borders, some of us,
Between the other world and this.
Further out than all of you,
Still we can only peer at distant hills,
Catching whispers in the wind sometimes,
Channelling darkness drifting through,
Weaving the two.
Strange stars appear in our skies.
We’d give our breath to breathe that other air,
And sanity to hear the singing truly.
For it is joy and madness both
To be so close
To all that’s dark and dreaming
And yet to have
No hope of homecoming.
When you approach the boundary between This and Other words bleach right out: they lose their relevancy. But words are a shield against the dark and dreaming, and for the moment we do need that shield.
I can only say that this concept of the border is what keeps me going. It’s not so much a reason to believe as a sense that I need to keep to my own internal faith. I keep the channel open so that the music – and the darkness – can drift through.