I have spoken to the rivers,
understood their frothy, foaming words.
I have heard their words collide against the rocks.
I have listened to singing trees,
Their leaves dancing in the wind.
I have flipped their pages in my head,
and read through their poems,
their couplets and their epics.
They tell tales of what was then,
stories lingering around their roots,
And some tied around their trunks.
But I don’t always understand,
Some of their scripts are like hieroglyphs,
with pictures showing naked thighs and mud-soaked feet
and seesaws balanced by swans at one end,
and locomotives at the other.
Some of their images seem to scream,
And I can’t again decipher the words.
Perhaps they are hieroglyphic sounds.
Perhaps I can only understand the sounds of the city
where cars run past each other,
brushing shoulders in the company of screaming horns.
They go on with this lively massacre,
fueled by our juvenile ambitions,
Clogging our roads to the point where a cardiac arrest seems imminent,
and self-induced paralysis already there.
Sometimes I hear the music drifting in from the woods,
And it sounds like there’s too much order in it.
No, we don’t need the order.
We want the controlled chaos.
Perhaps I have become tone-deaf
to the music of the forests.
I guess it’s time to leap off the edge of the sky.