Concerto for blunt instrument

An irregular heartbeat from d.o. to you. Not like a daily kos, more like a sometime sloth. Fast relief from the symptoms of blogarrhea and predicated on the understanding that the world is not a stage for our actions, rather it is a living organism upon which we depend for our existence.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

The trees

"Loggers in Brazil captured an eight-year-old girl from one of the Amazon’s last uncontacted tribes, tied her to a tree and burned her alive as part of a campaign to force the indigenous population from its' land"

-- The Daily Telegraph

where do i start, with you
rising in the flames, in smoke?
the tree holding you? all
the trees knowing you
knowing your name, first
walking in the forest, laughing
drinking from a leaf, hearing
your voice and listening
evergreen with hope, never
having heard the strained
voices and ugly din as the hope
fell to the ground, all the
hope all around, all the pain
smoke and bodies, all the sneers
the dull thoughts, the rawness

if you rise with awful heat
high above all you know
and see beyond the crowns
beyond rivers and plains
and unimagined seas to
other lands with scenes like
these, forests taken down
en mass, machines grinding
the life out of us, the
careless boys, the men
in suits, senseless shoppers
the shrugging giant and
too many lost children to count
and all the paths not taken
beneath the trees

the trees that know the air
as well, that treat it with
respect, changing needs and
degrees of honor unknown
to any congress, any office
in this bad atmosphere who
will rest in peace?


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