6 July 2006
Despite the blinding sun, I see
thunderheads on the horizon.
A burning bush in the desert
smokes out scorpions and snakes
after the bombers have passed.
In the distance, a mirage forms
in the intermingling of light and fantasy
as horned lizards move slowly forward
toward the burned body of an infant girl.
As Louis MacNeice said:
"The world is what we make it."
That's all there is. There's nothing more,
or less, just the vestiges of love and fear,
the chaos of far made uncomfortably near.
Fear is a constant currency, bought and sold.
Fear is the price of our immortal soul.
Create enough fear, and we'll do what we're told,
at least most of us will, the silent amoral majority.
As for love, we can barely remember love,
mistaking it for a telenovela.
Prestidigitation, a card trick, a disappearing act:
You see, most people believe in magic.
And as long as they believe, they are slaves.
Racism, religious hatred, the bigotries of slight of hand:
Magic is a great intoxicant.
They give drugs to the tortured
to keep them alive and alert.
Do what you gotta do, screw the rest.
Get into the cockpit, fly away,
drop bombs on the target
and at the end of the day
don't think about it.
But in the middle of the night
the dreams will come, the midnight fright,
the consuming darkness of the lonely soul,
the unmediated reality,
the vision of mortality
that no magic can conceal.
magic brings no absolution.
© 2006, Satya J. Gabriel