Death's fragment is our inheritance,
bashed through time from bard to preacher,
seldom does our raga of hate weaken,
in this snivelling watered-down version of
living, we take on board as something precious,
defend with armies: fighting since the first
erected cross, stained the last bleeding hill.
I wonder and I wonder, as the stars must wonder,
why they gravel the universe in such prolific
design, or the crab wonders, as his wounded meat
smarts, too polluted to eat, he can only scuttle
and remain infertile in less cluttered company.
It's not hard to slip into despair, forget the reason
why we are here and substitute our own ideas,
intricate laws, too intricate to maintain; they are
changed and changed, but who do they really
protect, and what has been protected?
The one-winged bird cannot perfect its flight,
nor the half-tailed fish its style, as we perfect ours
while wrecking the ball, slack-jawed when the big
mushrooms spores - be aware of that thief in the night.
CD Hunter © 2000
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