Listening to dust talking

From the vast skyline of this world out to the universes of the far distant unknown, I was born and came into being.

I lived through the raging heart of childhood and the torn fields of youth.

I saw the absurdity of this life, where mothers are so proud of dead soldiers, and aging children strive for the chaos of status, in a workplace where they have to murder.

I have seen Preachers sweat buckets preaching a gospel that is just another employer; I have watched them raging ninety miles an hour down a dead end street.

A young man from the Coventry regiment face down at the Somme sucking mud, I have seen the Colonel speaking so nicely as his eulogy is read.

All feeling ceases. Blood soaks the harvest fields, the circus goes on, the clowns fall in love with their theatre, and the audience gives a standing ovation and shouts and screams for more!

Sometimes I hear dust talking.

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