Did I hear someone say that the last river has run dry and that love was buried in the avalanche of acquisitive drive?

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Were they fireflies,

those blinking millions I saw on an abandoned paddy field

or a host of lost stars mapping out new constellational residencies?

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If the true catalyst of the processes of alchemy is love

have we not loved enough that the world so resists transformation?

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 If

to grow up we have to murder a child

don't we have to kill ourselves to recover our childhood?

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Did you know that it was after they cut off his hands that Victor Jara's guitar produced the most exquisite music?

 

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And is our sun such a giant sucker of silence, that it is only after nightfall that we hear ourselves speak?

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When will you understand that my voice is drawn from the nondescript song of sighs gathered from the dead forests of time?

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