A poem about sacrality and balance
I carve my nails into the bed
The famine separates me from the skin I’m shedding.
History has been leaking from me and running
As a wild stream feeding powerful beasts.
I tend to the Earth and Her kin,
In a hard, hurtful balance between
Living, dead, hurt and bliss.
I give birth to dreams and desires,
Finally untamed and not afraid.
The crops grow, buildings grow,
Life grows, develops in such way
Pain makes a truce out of respect.
But life is the acceptance of pain,
And faith it will be healed in time
For us to endure it again.
I throw my cards into the wind to predict
The future of mankind,
The future of my own life,
The future of this moment.
Past and Present flow continuously
From and into me.
My dirt covered feet drop their haste
And I stand still, landed
As a moth ready to contemplate
The enchantment of daylight.