The Tear

Hearing your cry in the shape of bird calls
a tender grief as a warning sign.
A voice whispers the things we have done to you
multiple
furious and careless
as joyful shouts from greedy minds in a crowded void.

A tear in Indra's net,
its infinite and all encompassing reflection slowly destroyed
after another jewel is gone
and another one
and another one.

What happens when we start to lose track of what is lost?
Becoming nebulous beings
(another jewel is gone)
consistently broken with a minor sprinkle of chaos.

Waiting for the bird calls to be heard
before it's too late.
A frustrated forest of trees in pots
too far away to spread our future roots
hopes for a wider space, a regenerative face.

A voice whispers the things we have done to you
the rape of the earth, the humiliation of the sky.
We, shaken as well – how could we not be
– by the soft violence of growing up apart,
longing for the past lives of a more ecocentric existence.
A break from the egosystem.

Head buzzing with metaphorical mosquitos
the speed and the itchiness of yet another day,
instead of the bites from the natural ones
always out there to remind us of our forgotten participation in the It.
In you (while yet, one more jewel is gone.)
Dreaming of an arrow through the amber
a shout rising from the slumber.

A search for a quiet ferocity,
perhaps as soft and often as the birds
enough to shake something up.
You told us you want revelation, not revolution.
You told us to listen,
glisten,
to weave back the web
one jewel at the time.

But also to realize a drop reflects as much,
interwoven in loss we can still whisper back.
One by one, a choir towards the whole.

We are nebulous beings,
consistently awoken by a minor sprinkle of chaos.