Prophecy Of The Mediterrenean

The pavements are dry; the crevices between them are drunk from de-hydration.They do not blame the sun, the sun revolves around itself, all the gods and insects follow it like a beetle clinging to flourescent dung.Who do they blame? Who can they blame? The high-heeled boots trampling all over their intestines.And the black banisters call these riders of dirt, angels? Dreams of snow flakes play tricks upon their brown eyes.Fall, fall, fall, little snow flakes upon our corridors, upon our columns so we can be what we are not.They look at me, the pavements look at me with parched eyes.Do you blame me as well? Don't look at me, I am not your tormentor, torment is for those who tread with a quick leap, I always tread lightly even when the world threatens to disappear.Slowly go the feet, slowly goes the mind, slowly goes time; Oh pavements you needn't look at me.

Around this gulf I go once more.A gulf without harbours, boats without a home.The rainbow has descended into the inlet and floats leasurely upon the water choaked with sea-weed, Oh my friend the sea-weed, do not hide your perfect body, let the eyes of the mortal rainbow see you.Countless times I have seen the coast of stone, but never did it give me one thought of its own.Would it disappear if I were to think of it? Would the lightning pierce its veins if I looked at is as something it is not? It is just a scene, a view, nothing sacred.Even the spirits that hide behind its eyes of war, they leave me to my devices.For they know the life I have is the life I make.I weave it thread by thread from a stuffy throne-room, bereft of servants and jesters.When I make a mistake I kill the thread with a snap so violent that it turns on me.The spirits have no thread to weave, they merely floar upon the wind: northsouth, eastwest, they go and the waves rise and fall as they pass by.

If the sea is a land in itself, then where are the peasants that reap what the drowned rocks sow? The tales under the sandy soil lie unheard: do they tell fables for the passers by or do they have prophecies to inspire the bloodless?

To listen to its prophecies, if they are indeed so, one would have to die to listen.For to listen to its promises is to forsake life.Not the life of years, but the life of flesh and bone encased in scaffolding of blood.This death at one's own hand is not a suicide; it is a letting go.Let the spirit depart from the physical senses, let it breeze out beautifully like rain from the clouds.To know what the flesh must have, what the flesh must do, we must abandon it and let the spirit communicate through the senses of the word.

But I, in this gulf that never looks at me, I shall not abandon this flesh as yet.For to abandon life is to abandon death, and if there isn't death to push us on, how can I love? My love is borne from death; and my death loves you and from this love for you, my dear, I weave the thread of life.