If thy god thy putrid god made me to me his image then I,
I yell blasphemously to the sky, forsake him!
why would one who's omnipotent place so many limbs
able to be tied bonded and strung to such a man?
to all man, and the disgusting plague of the minds image!
No says i, i will be water, let me take any form i desire!
let me rush in crashing waves to reshape the solid stones
let me sit still in reflection deep in forest and watch the moon
and autumn trees in my silver mirror.
let me drip from faces, let me drip from skies
let me cleanse and replenish life.
no, i know, i can speak blasphemous
because if i was to be in that putrid gods image
i could take the form of any containment
not be contained in my self
1 comment:
Los hombres son dioses muertos/ de un tiempo ya derrumba'o./ ¡Ni sus sueños se salvaron!/ Sólo su sombra a queda'o,/ y paso la madrugada/ buscando un rayo de luz./ ¿Por qué la noche es tan larga?/ Guitarra, ¡dímelo tú!
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