The fear of imagining that life has a purpose must be the fear that I won’t have the capacity to create the new anew renew the species: of course if the creative impulse is blocked, frustrated, repressed … then all one can do is destroy. Thus patriarchal man in his rage of need (a deep and pressing need) to control the creative in others must invent new wars to blood soak the precious earth.
How they tremble when I strut around; their heads might fall at any moment; this day might be their last; my dreams will come to them as nightmares.
Old man who were you in my dream last night? A rough sleeper, there seemed to be smoke coming from your mouth, from your body, seeping out from you clothing. Were you on fire? And you sang a song, a dirge, a love song. Must I envy you your ancient freedom. The freedom of minstrel and bard, the freedom of the old roads, feeding the earth with your song.