In another land as I write
there’s an explosion and a scream
there’s a quite sob and grief-weary eyes
that just cannot in tear find release
there’s horror that cannot congeal into scream
funerals and burials;
right now, as I write
it’s early evening in certain cities
and late night in others
there’s love-making and festivity
babies are being born
death by natural causes recorded;
right now, as I write
there’s life and death
encased in the eternal verities
the ata lo dahama
acknowledged or not;
right now, as I write
there’s a heartbeat
in primordial irregularity
saying ‘write, write
for death must come
and you don’t know when’;
right now, as I write
there’s a ticking in my heart
a time-bomb it is
that the world calls ‘love’.
