trees ii

by Donald Kuspit

what's left to inspire,
                               all the gods ground
to dust, the heights leveled,
meaning itself meaningless.
                                   emotion of enigma
impossible in the clarity
                             of the banal,
triumphant over thought
                               and passion alike,
                         in the ruling indifference.

you alone remain to inspire,
                                    haunting the outposts
of memory, flourishing
                          in forests of forgetten
feelings, growing in the ruins
                                      of cloistered
                  glorious in the invisible wind
on the mountains of myth.
                                 outlasting all words,
lingering in the unexplored silence,
the horizon of hope,
                            you measure the immeasurable
with your uprightness,
                              nature timeless
once again in fantasy
                             as it never was in reality.