Sándor's poem

Gambling on the Wings of Thought

by Sándor Zoltán Németh

27th October 2024

In the intoxication of crowds rushing through Birmingham’s streets,

in the shackling compulsion of darkening sunglasses,

in the solitude of the noisy Instagrams of a square smelling of weed,

fleeing the shadows of the shape-shifting bird-god

of an art gallery,

I looked at you in terror.

Before the white walls of a stairwell you soared upwards.

In the uncertain apparition of your slippery, ring-shaped body,

rimmed with diamond stones darting senselessly,

stifling human consciousness,

I fell paralysed beneath the wings

of black masks brushing the bare blonde arms

of a Lebanese restaurant

and densely whispering coloured plates.

In the distance, a nodding Santa

sleds along the tram rails,

chasing a shower scattering stars,

rolling a translucent falafel ball

before my right eye,

grotesquely colliding

with the mystery of your frenzied dance.

Like a shadow-creature feeding on my anxieties,

you escaped from the prison of darkness towards me.

Your existence, following my tranquillity with terror,

gallops on the wings of light and thought.

Are you a wave, perhaps, or matter?

Is your disturbance the work of reason or chaos,

of creation or the play of chance?

You may roll the dice, my lord—it is your turn...