Nocturne

Free spirits wander through the night's streets.
When the moon is bright is when God is most dead.
It is no secret all men have free will,
For even the slave writers know,
So why imprison it in laws
That only lead to self-deprevation
When it is so sweet to revel in its incantations.
If, at some moment, the free spirits
Gaze upon a preacher of devils and angels,
The four letters of HELL blazes across their minds;
And they laugh like small children.
Looking at each other like new-born constellations
And expose their bodies to the naked stars:
Why shouldn't the stars
Stare at us in our natural wonder before they die
As we do them?
Taurus' horns are our hazy footsteps.

Suddenly, the free spirits come across a crucifix
They stare longingly at it,
Nothing stares back.
Unpredictable beliefs rooted in sanity's borderline.

How can the followers of this cross ever be modern
When they believe in the right and wrong
Of shephards wandering in lonely deserts?
Is the city dweller a shephard? Is the high-street a desert?

For a moment the free spirits feel dejected.
Then instantly they are re-vitalised,
Eager to indulge in their spirits.
They are saints without altars and feasts,
Living an endless celebration.

A beggar on the church steps, approaches them,
Hungry for a new heritage and a living future.
The free spirits turn him away.
They dance with one hand on the earth.
They are not philosophers, they're words are not miraculous:
The philosopher of the future lives dreams not dreams of life.

The free spirits never say,
Where they have come from
For origins have more appeal than civilization.
An invisible appeal which pulls us
To the primordial beginning
Which still lives in our essence.
By leaving their origins a mystery
The free spirits transcend morality and pre-conceptions.
Their every act is their only history
Their wild dances are their last names.
When they sleep they do not dream of heaven,
They dream of the night.