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Seeing a field of colourful lupins, lost

in its chromatic degradation intelligence

I am reminded of the perfect colours, patterns, shapes,

function and interfunction congruence

of underground minerals, wild flowers and bird songs,

of aurora borealis and bioluminescent sea waves.

Of the over and under, ground or water Paradise

that everybody wants to place somewhere else,

while believing that what they see

can only have been designed by a God

appreciating beauty’s diversity

only when it is not their own.

I am reminded of seahorses, shooting stars and pink lakes

rainbow mountains, tropical fruits and glowworm caves

millennial baobabs, polka-dot leaves and multi-step waterfalls

salt fields, moon valleys and first rain’s petrichor

air plants, spiral clouds and black shores

galloping glaciers, orange savannas and spotted seashells

coral reefs, snow dunes and gemstones

blue lava, red rivers and striped rocks

monsoon forests, fairy circles and supercell thunderstorms

floating lotuses, methane bubbles and fogbows

sky halos, supernovas and black suns

fire rainbows, rainbow trees and sandstone waves

flowery deserts, purple sunsets and fauna’s gaze.

I am reminded that it mutates, self-heals and co-creates.

That it grows through the cement of man-made roads.

That it speaks, in hyphal-network words.

That its intricate individual and symbiotic wisdom

we can’t understand how it works.

That its vastness, depth, and fractal code

we do not even know.

That we create in supremacy, outwards, like an orphan electron

while we can’t reflect nor comprehend our inner and outer world.

When all the answers are there, in a mirage of gold

of spotless, synchronised and syncopated order in it all.

I am reminded that it sounds like poetry

just by naming it, natural idiosyncrasy.

That I can move myself no longer needing metaphors.

I am reminded of those who, believe it or not,

with no awe, reverence or kinship feel like trashing it all

preaching on the divine… bigotry, helotry

and furthermore, feeling like they are not

ending themselves in the same go.

This poem was published by A Beautiful Resistance, an American anti-capitalist and pagan organisation running Gods & Radicals Press, here.

If you enjoyed this reading please give it a clap, and find out the many other different ways you can support me with here.

Counterspace is the first decolonial thinktank mapping Cultural Activism worldwide.

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Cristina Morales

Cristina Morales

Decolonial Cultural Activist ◯ | Curator, Writer & Artist |

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