“After Aushwitz there is no more poetry”
— Adorno
These are hard times.
The land frozen under the weight
of a white littered from above
The rivers holding their breath
blue and still in patient repose
The oceans as always watch in retreat
to the depths where death is unknown
Man has tamed nature by distempered dance
unhinged from himself, the mirror holds his story.
What left to do?
Pen to paper
paper to fire
a little light
a shadow cast,
so we may know
we are still there
and can be
scared of ourselves.
