It seems I dream of anarchy—of an even deeper shade—
Yet, as soon as I had the thought, I lightly let it fade.
But it left an aftertaste: a lingering in my head,
It made me reek of metal, and it plagued my tongue with lead.
I aim to shine and scream a flare; beckon with fire’s charms,
I beat a welcome rhythm on a drum with just my arms.
Scold the sky for holding the sun and not letting it fall,
Questioning why to scold something inanimate at all.
Turpentine and tempestuous and troubled is our time,
There is a peak, and then a fall, and a restarted climb
Scold the men for lifting The Earth and then letting it fall,
Questioning why to scold something inanimate at all.
In indifference we were born, and in complacency we drown,
Exiting with no outburst, palms facing out with our arms down.
