Loss of agency

The trees and their leaves – ?
swinging and tumbling
a quite movement across the ages

In me – this force?
destruction of intent
moving against free will

These trees and a soft wind
they are so close
can touch my essence

Like them – I am?
growing spontaneously
climbing silent of itself

I am empty of myself
and yet I grow
growing with a pounding fierce ember

My measures keeps expanding
inexorably towards the Sun
finally destroying the ceiling

From the hole:
melted water pours down
grabbing hold of my very essence

I have lost something of myself
and am now
joined by a distant being

Something black and strong
and cruel in its might
the soft smells in this rosegarden

About Emil Hjort

Writer, poet and mysticist.
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