Maybe flowers do grow in the sky
And everything else on earth
Maybe we see merely their reflection
Maybe it’s a curious magic.
Then maybe all that we do to them
Down here on the earth
Do not harm THEM up there
The flowers we plucked
Maybe are still alive up there
And the lives we killed
And the land we distorted
And the water we painted black
And the trees we tamed
Are still up there, alive, intact.
Maybe we are lonely down here
With nothing but humans
And mirror illusions
Maybe the crimes we did
Weren’t crimes at all.
Maybe, maybe we were fooled
Maybe we are savage apparitions
Trapped between mirrors
In forgotten, unmapped space
In the cosmos.
Maybe we are lost.
Drew this pic (from an ad) in B&W but later shot it in sepia mode.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.
Leaves of Grass. WALT WHITMAN.
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
The Waste Land. T S Eliot.
“It is not to diffuse you that you were born of your mother and
father, it is to identify you,
It is not that you should be undecided, but that you should be decided,
Something long preparing and formless is arrived and form’d in you,
You are henceforth secure, whatever comes or goes.”
WALT WHITMAN, Leaves of Grass
“All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.”
Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass