The high priestess sun
and the moon
sitting
on a throne
of space
were all
people could
write of
before
screens
took over
the face.

Galileo liked to kiss
his telescope with an
eye full of curiosity
jotting down notes
of invention,
while Monet stared
so hard at flowers
he came back as
pollen riding a bee.

The wind whispered
a different tune
back then,
it had a voice
and plenty a
listening ears
to land on.

I heard the sea
also slept with sirens,
who slept with sailors,
that slipped into stories
we don't know to be
true or false.

I wonder what it was
like when two worlds
knew how to coexist,
when humans
lived with magic,
and without
the need to
overtake.

But I believe
we have glued
our wings too
close to the sun,
we never got the
chance to fly.

I often see
our finish line
in the way
we treat
each other,
save for the
select souls
who can still
sing the
siren song,

who can sit
with silence
and heartbeat,
swim into deep
hours of nothing
and bring back
significance,
jotting it down
as verse or book.

Let us inch closer and closer
to this forgotten behavior, you and I.