In the early morning,
when our land wins back its turn to bathe,
there is as yet only the clutter of possibility.
Thrown into this clean light
so far in excess
of an unknown self.
In the rising morning,
where there is play and knocks and hope,
knocks give way to only more indestructability.
And each renewal of hope brings a certain denial and an uncertain friend –
At its zenith, the sun, with soft ruby promises of immortality
allows us the myth of our scripted storying.
The story now has a beginning –
in coupling and coupled certainty
we become shocked
by new cries not our own
there is weeping once more,
“Were we not thrown here too,
just as surely as you are now?
Unaware of the fact, the afternoon fascinated and beguiled us,
few knew better,
and they laughed at us,
and we toiled,
Sometimes blissful, mostly aimless,
seldom aware of that which we are not.
Unconsciously we strove to build an account,
yes, we worked to provide an account,
A story worth telling that featured ones own art –
And we asked,
only ever ourselves,
quietly so no-one else would hear of our uncertainty
– save from deaf heaven –
as the sun lowered in the sky:
“Was there good here where I am, father?”
“Was there good here where I am, my son?”