Post by artolmaeus on Nov 7, 2021 17:33:25 GMT -6
the dust that falls upon shoulders
comes from the sky by way of the ground
and winds mingle the toils of man
with fires and soot and pollen and wasted flan
the windswept meadow with the lark's song
the imagination of every child guided
by such pastoral stories as jets mince the sordid vapors
the dirt cast upon a grave amid prayers
especially the dust that escapes the earthen box
the fires from foxholes and inglorious death
the longing in every heart for a hard kiss
and all the showers to wash it off
but how, we are baptised in the batter
of dust and dirt and long and hurt
commingled in the sweat and oil of a continuing incarnation
to at once feel both dirty and alive
in love even, bathed in the falling dust of history
many times, it is the dust that seeds the clouds for rain
and rain on my tongue leaves no time to complain
maybe a stain on my shirt
run down the white button up with an oily streak
and this dust that falls upon your shoulders
was me, twenty years ago
and you, and everyone alive
we are all covered in the burden of each other's existence
and today's dirt was yesterday's breath of life
and the after birth of babies you will never see
but they are all there
from the sky, sprinkled quite fairly
on you, on them and on me
comes from the sky by way of the ground
and winds mingle the toils of man
with fires and soot and pollen and wasted flan
the windswept meadow with the lark's song
the imagination of every child guided
by such pastoral stories as jets mince the sordid vapors
the dirt cast upon a grave amid prayers
especially the dust that escapes the earthen box
the fires from foxholes and inglorious death
the longing in every heart for a hard kiss
and all the showers to wash it off
but how, we are baptised in the batter
of dust and dirt and long and hurt
commingled in the sweat and oil of a continuing incarnation
to at once feel both dirty and alive
in love even, bathed in the falling dust of history
many times, it is the dust that seeds the clouds for rain
and rain on my tongue leaves no time to complain
maybe a stain on my shirt
run down the white button up with an oily streak
and this dust that falls upon your shoulders
was me, twenty years ago
and you, and everyone alive
we are all covered in the burden of each other's existence
and today's dirt was yesterday's breath of life
and the after birth of babies you will never see
but they are all there
from the sky, sprinkled quite fairly
on you, on them and on me
