Heraclitus

According to Hermippus, Heraclitus asked the doctors if any of them was able to deliver, and relieve him of the fluids inside him?, their answer was negative , so he went to lay down in the sun, and asked the children to cover him with cow dung , which used to relieve him somehow, and after two days they found him dead .
Neanthes the Kizikius , asserts that Heraclitus could not get red of the dung, and the dogs devoured him .
Diogenes Laertius
Life of the philosophers




I climbed the walls of my own heart
To approach you
But all I found on the other side
Was the scent of wet and cold soil
Filling me
And this emptiness

I climbed all these trees
Leaf by leaf
And inhabited their boughs right next to their sap and juice
Alive and dead
Hoping that half the road towards you might be disclosed to me
Or at least.. the secret of the other half
That you never cared for
Neither been aware of
The half that leads to me
Could be open before your eyes
And lo
Here it is between your hands
This Solipsism,
In it’s eternal return
The anxiety of Heraclitus, hanging over your baby face
Nothing, except the Ego
The Id
And his consumption filling your lungs
Your loneliness, like his ..
On the top of a mount
Staring at the absolute, ruthless, and despotic eternity
You vanquish death
Coldly, and without enthusiasm
Neither hope
Dung or perfume
The same
No difference between place or time
“ Here “ and “There “
“ Had been “
or “ Would be “
The “ Nay “
The “ Neant “
And whatever that comes out of “ Naught “
here – now ,
now – here ,
In one word ..
Nowhere …

Those who were gone ,
And those who’re throwing their first step down the road ,
Preparing for their advent ..
are all one ..
Being and none ,
A journey that comes to its end before it starts
No, before it conceives a start
After is ‘NOT ‘
Before is ‘Naught “,
Ariadni’s thread, tied at a rusty nail
In Ulysses’ boat


I tried to climb the walls of my heart that separated me from you …
But I couldn’t find it,
Illusion?
unconsciousness of these images ,
Moon shadow?
Vanity of time my son
A life time is something
Out of the tusks of nothingness
In the same, or in different time ,
Solve this riddle for me,
And I’ll open for you the gates of town,
What is this Chose in action, between us
While you don’t know what’s coming ..
You’re not even aware of those Shadows outside the cave ,
you’re one of them,
Though, you’re separated from them, for the time being ..
By some unconsciousness, omission, or oblivion..
We’ve been swept away by this chat,
While this stupid place is besieging us, and closing around…
And those worthless and despicable ,
Foist us inside this angle that does not recognize us
Yet we cling to it,
Because we have nothing else for a landmark, or a sign,
And it has nothing, save us, for a dwelling
Becomes, deep inside us, a fixation..
And a cross
* * *

I climbed all the possible, Impossibilities
But found nothing of you,
Except a picture, on a book’s cover
Dry plains,
And spacious thirst of sand

I saw you one rainy night,
One rainy dream,
Right above the wet mirage’s line,
But when I climbed the mirage’s line, and shouted at the top
Of my voice
All I got is an echo,
And my own Ego
Laughing sarcastically at me
Above the mirage’s line..
Under the rain..

* * *

I was
Thus you
Or maybe We
Nothing in the outside,
Internal insight,
Where words go tight and expressionless.
And almost dead
What’s the difference between What you, yourself, Are
Or that you were of Mine
Sunset, declination, or dusk
The first hemistich, or last
I am unable to explain the difference to myself,
So how can I to you

* * *

you, towards whose face I groped my way,
But never found..
Forgive my Unbecoming,
I made a mistake choosing the road, you see,
The sea besieged me from one side,
And my thirst, from the other
This narrow pass is forcing me towards the sea,
And you towards my thirst,

To be drowned, and lose your face,
You take my place,
And come to save myself from me
While little way ashore…
Those despicable you know,
Draw on our drowned bodies, lines
Slashes and cuts
And call them Equators territories
And national waters

* * *

The anxiety of Heraclitus is surrounding you,
The dung in your lungs,
And all those seas you crossed,
Deny your face
Refuse to confess that they’ve ever seen you,
On their surface, wandering, for years and years on end,
Looking for a woman,
Your mother maybe… What was her name you said??
Penelope? Who spent her life on a loom?
Or Antiklia ? who died only a few yards from seeing you..
After all these years of her waiting agonies
No difference,
What matters now is, that you’re back,
Without returning in reality,
Because, what came back in your form, is not the one she knew
A Naught is back, my son
Not you
The real You is lost for good,
Substituted by a lame existence
Full of dung,
Brine,
And waves’ foam
* * *
I am finishing now, this letter
And washing the ashtray, I use for inkpot
So, let me call you, for the last time before I take my leave, a Barbarian
That unrecognizable by no homeland
And no homeland he knows,
Belongs to no place,
And been lost, by the very woman that bore him
To return later on, a triangle of doom
A Labyrinth’s thread on a rusty nail,
A drowned ship, and an ancient broken, linty loom

Bereavement and loss
But give no heed
And switch off the light, on this side of oblivion,
Let it rest in its misty peace
Ancient, new, parting, or coming, all together,
In a trice
Give it a try, my son
Give it a try, even though I know, beforehand
That you never accept an advice

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