Seven Dreams of the City
...one often tried to jump over too wide chasms of thought and then falls in...
Parched sands of the most desolate desert
God tries any way to remake himself in the image of
his worst enemy. He takes himself apart and all the
words he's used to blaspheme us and tried to set
it all right again. But something isn't right.
His own fragile bones fall down and turn to dust,
one, two, then several other creatures rise up out of
his ashes, these try hard to find works for themselves
but can't stay mute for many years. They didn't know themselves
until the day they couldn't pronounce a word for hand.
Was it pride or jealousy or stamina?
Love bequeathed or insanity? To this day we won't know
because just as soon as the bones jump up and shape
themselves, they fall apart to form the God
to put him forever to rest in his pot of bones.
Here at least was an arable field. Could it be rice
or strawberries furrowed into shale? I saw a way
back to what we were once, across the plains which
reeked of affability. This was truly a desert
which had nothing ore to offer. It seemed so simple
in the beginning: to observe carefully what life might
have been like before it existed. Certain hues in sunset,
beetles scurrying under slabs of granite. The cherry-red
of the planet was perforated, and warned of better days
to come if we only took the time to look around. And when
I did, I saw that the molten slag was moving at a snail's pace.
What to make of signs spread out over the Plains of Nazceth?