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If Heaven Could Talk

 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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