Thread of Life
HE POUNDS NAILS INTO HARDWOOD.
ONE ASKS, "WHAT'S HE BUILDING?"
SHAPES WOOD AND SMOOTHES ITS ROUGH-HEWN
EDGE WITH HIS HANDS. ONE ASKS, "HOW DOES
HANDS BLEED WHEN LANCED BY A STRAY SLIVER.
ONE SAYS, "HE IS THE SON OF A WHORE."
KNOTS HEMP AND THINKS OF A BEAUTIFUL BRAID
THAT THE TOWER PEOPLE WORE. ONE WONDERED
IF IT WAS TOO LATE.
The Message Never Materialized
when white rock pathways outlined the
image of a giant dove holding an olive branch,
and wound gracefully around electric waterfalls
spilling into cloudy carp pounds. The air stood
thick with the scent of star jasmine, and the
wooden clatter of a miniature windmill pleasantly
disrupted the calm. Some of them shook their heads
at the pretentiousness, a few snuck pond water
into tiny vessels, slipping them into expensive
handbags, others stared and thought of the events
that led them here. They think of their beliefs
that the universe is sad, and that everything
in it, animate or inanimate, the wild creatures,
the stones, the stars, is enveloped in this great
sadness, pervaded by it. It is without end or
reason. The most beautiful things in it, they
think, a flower or a song, as well as the most
compelling, a desire or a thought, are pointless.
And they know that the only rest from their anxiety-for
they have been trembling since infancy-lies in
the acknowledging and absorbing of this sadness
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