by kvennarad

We’re the fourth generation to recognise the blue sun, to run out into a night of seven moons and make mad maypoles to dance around, to have a year of two hundred days, a day of ten hours, an hour of one hundred minutes, a minute of one hundred seconds, to smile ourselves to sleep in our quantum hammocks with the gentle mourning of funnel-trees in our ears; we’ve made clans for ourselves named for mythical beasts (cougar/antelope) (leopard/ox) but for coupling and laughing games not for rivalry, and we feed our gentle, native cockatrices and chimeras by hand; we’ve refound God, and though there are gorges and mountaintops here where Mohammed or Buddha or Einstein might have walked, waited, counted stars, accepted plates of gold from an angel, we’ve rebound ourselves to Him, the wise-foolish-wise God and his gentle upstart Son and we marry in His peaceful kingdom; our songs show such tender passion, our language is new to the point of forgetting this old speech, we’re true women, men, others, who fly by our tongues, letting our vocabulary seek out infinite ideas and meanings; our waters flow and our tears taste sweet; our lives are poetic and seem forever; we’ve replaced our artificial lights with cunning mirrors that reflect the deep cyan sunlight and moonshine into our rooms. Come and rescue us, remind us who we are, intent atheists, bring us Kardashian, cosmetics, constitution, blonde highlights, the bonds of logic, replace our horizonward cooperation with democracy, remind us our happiness is delusional, tell us again how there is only one moon and the sun is yellow…


jupiterSomething totally different today, but still yours to apply meaning to. ©Marie Marshall.