G
Guest
Guest
I'm not sure who wrote this, but i've had it in my notebook for some time now..
These carbons that hold me tight do no justice to what we are, we longing apes. We who are soaked through to bone with necessary sufferings, these pains we bear, to exist. How we look to lower animals, how they cycle through; with no broken hearts among spiders and no wars among worms and no famine among vultures and no homelessness among whales and no bankruptcy for mice whose necks we break with steel traps. What of us and our paper money that blinds us. What of us and our never ending aches that haunt us. What of us and all we are; builders and pioneers that look on the stars, that walk in the black nothingness, that paint, that write, that make music, that think therefore we are. But what of us and our bombs and our factories and our diseases and our lusts and our greed? What becomes of all we build on high. What of Mayans and Egyptians and Visigoth's. What of tribes we cast from huts to skyscrapers, what now? And tomorrow, what then? We reach our hands through high whitecaps of cirrocumulus to find hands foreign, and eternal math, answering with questions. What is there to know? What we've become; from hunters of deer, from hunters of men, from the character to speech, from the trade of goods, from these hands came our roofs, our weapons our clothes. Our gods that cast down death, that we cast on ourselves; the naked apes divided by their gods, divided the day we built one roof higher than all others, divided by the organized elders, divided by those that did no work that bade the lesser to do all work. What becomes of our souls then, as we continue on with our controls and our iron fists to claim what we can. Our gods that sacrifice us, our gods that pit us against ourselves, our gods that crucify and cross their legs under trees and fight holy wars for holy lands and spill the vestige of everything and open our veins and give us no heaven, we puppets. We praying puppets preyed on by swords and daggers. We, the infection spread over this poor planet cradling us, as we forge through darkness for iron and bronze, gold and silver; building higher the reaching hand, for glory, for borders drawn by elders now kings, kings now mouthpieces, mouthpieces now mountains and me. I scream inside. I beg and plead for my species to be let out, to be freed from paper money and ironworks and tribes and borders and gods and kings. We will not survive the night, but the apes build more; carving new worlds for themselves..curiouser and curiouser, and they make barrels that let loose fire with the sound of thunder, and they shape atomic clouds that wipe slates clean, and they harness what the poor planet gives to them. They whip its back. How strange the world has become. With eyes closed to feel the winds carve themselves into the mountains and valleys, to smell the ocean salt erode the coastlines, to hear the dusts and sands and soils. What more is left to give to upright apes that clamor for more, who yearn for all there is, that must have, that will be the unsatisfied; the muscle tendons that transform a hand to a fist and when hands foreign find us, our hearts will be carved, our homes will be hollowed, our light will be reddened. I weep for evolution.
These carbons that hold me tight do no justice to what we are, we longing apes. We who are soaked through to bone with necessary sufferings, these pains we bear, to exist. How we look to lower animals, how they cycle through; with no broken hearts among spiders and no wars among worms and no famine among vultures and no homelessness among whales and no bankruptcy for mice whose necks we break with steel traps. What of us and our paper money that blinds us. What of us and our never ending aches that haunt us. What of us and all we are; builders and pioneers that look on the stars, that walk in the black nothingness, that paint, that write, that make music, that think therefore we are. But what of us and our bombs and our factories and our diseases and our lusts and our greed? What becomes of all we build on high. What of Mayans and Egyptians and Visigoth's. What of tribes we cast from huts to skyscrapers, what now? And tomorrow, what then? We reach our hands through high whitecaps of cirrocumulus to find hands foreign, and eternal math, answering with questions. What is there to know? What we've become; from hunters of deer, from hunters of men, from the character to speech, from the trade of goods, from these hands came our roofs, our weapons our clothes. Our gods that cast down death, that we cast on ourselves; the naked apes divided by their gods, divided the day we built one roof higher than all others, divided by the organized elders, divided by those that did no work that bade the lesser to do all work. What becomes of our souls then, as we continue on with our controls and our iron fists to claim what we can. Our gods that sacrifice us, our gods that pit us against ourselves, our gods that crucify and cross their legs under trees and fight holy wars for holy lands and spill the vestige of everything and open our veins and give us no heaven, we puppets. We praying puppets preyed on by swords and daggers. We, the infection spread over this poor planet cradling us, as we forge through darkness for iron and bronze, gold and silver; building higher the reaching hand, for glory, for borders drawn by elders now kings, kings now mouthpieces, mouthpieces now mountains and me. I scream inside. I beg and plead for my species to be let out, to be freed from paper money and ironworks and tribes and borders and gods and kings. We will not survive the night, but the apes build more; carving new worlds for themselves..curiouser and curiouser, and they make barrels that let loose fire with the sound of thunder, and they shape atomic clouds that wipe slates clean, and they harness what the poor planet gives to them. They whip its back. How strange the world has become. With eyes closed to feel the winds carve themselves into the mountains and valleys, to smell the ocean salt erode the coastlines, to hear the dusts and sands and soils. What more is left to give to upright apes that clamor for more, who yearn for all there is, that must have, that will be the unsatisfied; the muscle tendons that transform a hand to a fist and when hands foreign find us, our hearts will be carved, our homes will be hollowed, our light will be reddened. I weep for evolution.
