The lone figure trudged
up the sloping hill,
rolling his shoulders as if
preparing for a punch.
His hair glistened with sweat and grease,
every feature sagged with grief and weariness
he wore a long dark coat,
no shoes.

The wet grass shivered around his feet,
and bowed in wide circles where he
stepped.

The man disappeared over the hill,
the crickets, previously startled into silence,
resumed their drone.
The grass straightened,
and the moon reappeared from behind the clouds.

A little cabin,
on the side of a large mountain,
gray fog in the mornings,
brilliant sunsets in the evenings,
a clear gurgling stream,
a fruitful garden,
roaring fire,
red orange glow,
novels piled to the ceiling,
little trails,
fireflies's comforting glow,
scent of basil in the walls,
clear air,
morning birds,
dusk bull frogs,
blankets piled high.

The only constants in this world are
the sun, the moon, and the sea

The sun always rises,
warms the chilled, damp air in
the early mornings,
Lightens the sky,
Rays burn skin
and dry the earth.

The sun follows the moon in an infinite chase through
the sky.

The moon is
the silent, forlorn sister.
She comes out timidly,
when you sleep.
She cools, soothes,
and is always, shining gently
through trees.

The moon urges the sea to push and pull
ebb and surge

The sea houses life,
it is a playground for all
at the bright blue surface
and a mystery deep down
in the dark.

He joined in the slow progressive line
towards the looming grey, square building ahead.
Every single body in the line wore a suit and tie,
black on white, not a wrinkle in sight
their distinctive features began to melt off,
noses, freckles, moles, color,
until their faces were smooth and blank.
Their thoughts soon joined into a
monotonous hum,
their feet mechanically
moved their bodies towards hell.

One day, a long time ago
my father sat me upon his lap
and told me a story.
"A story of our people,
the first people",
he had said,
"Before man came to this world
we flew with the birds,
we slept beside the bears,
we sung along with the wolves,
we mourned our dead
with the whales,

and then man came,
arising from the shadows like demons,

they plundered,
fires raged, they killed,
brought disease,

so we left.

The trees no longer wink as you walk by,
they stand, tall and proud,
silent as a stone.
You cannot shake hands with a dog,
or a bear, they've become wary,
untrusting.


Man now sing alone,
they mourn alone,
they eat alone,
they've forgotten how to fly.

They write stories of us, little one,
some true, some myth.
They yearn for something beyond what they've got,
what they've caused.

but we can never go back,
they have enclosed themselves inside walls
of rock, leaving imagination for
the children."
And with that, my father shook his head,
smiling sadly.

The child stood at the edge of the world,
where the sea falls, with an eternal roar,
to the depths of hell.

He stood there for many years,
staring into the oblivion,
and one day he abruptly turned,
nodded once, twice
and walked back an old man.

When they asked him, what he found,
the old man answered, in a voice
cracked with age and misuse,
"I have seen Him, I have seen God"
and tears fell from his withered face
onto the ground and they asked him
why and the old man, who watched
the ocean fall to hell and the mists rise
to the heavens answered
"He is a corpse".