They say heaven could talk once you look for it;
But does it still matter when I already have its impressions?
They have the whitest cottons, that you can lay your head
onto, don’t they? Animals do not live to obey the food chain. Science is
non-existent. But the ecosystem is beyond reasoning:
Branches and twigs are made of omniscience. The Kingdom lies
where the river meets the golden rocks. It is all-powerful God of Israel’s.
Weariness, there, is a forbidden fruit. Will it speak to me
when I am uncertain if I could eat it from a burnt Baobab tree? There is Heaven,
but my lips are connected to my silence, and my silence is an elegy to my
broken nights. It is a papier-mâché which everyone bids. Sometimes said,
sometimes sung, sometimes unspoken.
The promise of paradise is only for the cleansed. The angels
do not blow the trumpets from an omen; they sing for praise, while I hear
earthly tunes of the winds.
Nevertheless, the Heaven hears the blind’s cry, sees the deaf
as he strays.
But it could never talk.
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