Still Ist Die Nacht

Lawrence Bourgeois 

 

So seldom is it rage and anger

that brings the dark stillness

There is often passion in rage

Rage can be pure; liberating even

A white-hot fury to cleanse impurities

Certainly this is preferable

to that cold, gnawing hush

 

How rarely does grief alone

drive a soul to that bitter edge

Grief burns like scalding brine to the brain

But often it brings purposeful pain

Pain is the forgemaster, the smith

Pain is the fiery crucible

Pain and suffering temper the human will

Into a far greater person than ever without

 

Silent, then, is the dark and emotionless night

It produces no true grief, therefore no true art

It does nothing save degrade the psyche

In our aversion to suffering, we have forgotten

Pain is motion, pain is art

Still, then, is that dead and soulless night

As we bruise, as we bleed, as we burn, we create.