We are the lathe of civilization’s mischief and magic and misery. Let it be known, to those spirits in the wind and in the dust, that we are the children of a meek disaster. Give us voice to tell our stories and with those spirits in the wind and in the dust, that we are accidents of this disaster. Give us a voice to tell our story. And! Forgive us if the stage we build and our actions are both frail and strong and our harmony scattered and our thoughts poorly articulated.
We cannot speak those perfect words. We cannot commit to ledger those wondrous numbers. Sometimes we do not understand how we feel. But everything has a name: every verse, every chapter, every song, and every reason, pain, notion, activity and hope. Hope! We create words when required and our lists of names are long. We match object to word and definition expands as does our understanding of that object. We speak, we understand and we communicate our stories to the wind and to all those equipped with ears and hearts and inclined to listen.
It is night and with the night, we touch the light of the moon. It is bright. It is the brightest sign that we are not alone. From high above parted clouds, drawn back by the magic wind, we see it both clearly and completely, for it is the rejoicing moon. We sing, we laugh and we dine from the harvest feasts. We bathe in silver dust and clean ourselves with new rain as it falls from a star-filled sky. We sing and we know these songs.
We understand the prose and we hum the verses with our hearts. Once again, we are children of summer and parents of another day.
And! Beautiful you are…