ITACA
We are sailing to Ithaca.
From one coast to another, from one star to another.
From one time to another, from one inhospitable country to another, towards the lost kingdoms.
Through the chaos and anarchy, in which there is no one below or above that.
Through sickness and eclipse.
Through the meantime, in which nothing is close or far away anymore.
Through the confusion and through the error.
Throughout the long night and short day.
Throughout the war that still is not freedom and through the peace that is not peacefulness.
From Golden Age to the Iron Age, from Christ to Antichrist.
From the beginning to the very end.
Some call it progress, advancement, but it is a progression in death, because we are dying every day, going from the dawn of the Golden Age to the full eclipse, in the deep night of Iron Age.
We are sailing to the wild.
Through the ruins of cities and civilizations.
Through the dejection and through fear.
Through the dream and promise of another starting.
Through joy and through hollow pain.
Through a life that holds us up and through death that releases.
Through the ice and through the night.
To stellar fires, from the Iron to the Golden Age, from the Antichrist to the Second Coming.
Our language is a ruin of Knowledge, our words are inane echo.
Our thoughts are blurry memory.
They are powerless to express the truth.
They are powerless to express who we are and where we are going, we – humans of iron race detained in the Iron Ages.
They are powerless to express the inexpressible.
Boris Nad

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