September 17, 2002

This

A dusty photo album, wedged under a broken shelf
Of dreams that overlooked the ravage of time
Lit up by a flickering candle in a desolate barn
Which a gusty draft topples and sets all alight
A Drought it is and expendable she is, let her burn
Just let her burn

This is a conversation, between voices that are not heard, they speak in silence, they never begin and they never end. This is not about nation, man or woman. This is not about the star that rises from the East or the paleface that follows its descent in the West. This is not about life, nor this is about death. This is what precedes the former and survives the latter. These are moments that cannot be measured in time, it is a dew drop that would never fall, a scenery seen by a blind man's eye, the simple tune of a bird never seen, the secret warm corner in the Artic ice.

This is a conversation, heard with the mind and closed eyes. This is you and this is me, and yet this is nobody.

This is just a conversation.