“i In view of the fading animals the proliferation of sewers and fears the sea clogging, the air nearing extinction we should be kind, we should take warning, we should forgive each other Instead we are opposite, we touch as though attacking, the gifts we bring even in good faith maybe warp in our hands to implements, to manoeuvres ii Put down the target of me you guard inside your binoculars, in turn I will surrender this aerial photograph (your vulnerable sections marked in red) I have found so useful See, we are alone in the dormant field, the snow that cannot be eaten or captured iii Here there are no armies here there is no money It is cold and getting colder, We need each others’ breathing, warmth, surviving is the only war we can afford, stay walking with me, there is almost time / if we can only make it as far as the (possibly) last summer”
—Margaret Atwood, “They are hostile nations”“there is nothing quite like the pinked fingertips of somebody cozied up the rubber shavings from an overworked drawing the flowers that bloom in long awaited Springtimes the gleam of the black and white keys of a piano the sun that rises out of a foggy morning the moon that glows out of a starry sky the breeze that sighs upon the swaying gardens the shine of a newly polished metal instrument the colours on a palette of paint the smile I have on my happy face the cloud that forms wisps in a periwinkle blue sky the faded scratch of pencil on a sketch made long ago the fluorescent impact of neon lights the pastel shades that glitter along the horizon at sunset the melodies and harmonies of an orchestra's ode the jacaranda petals that litter a neighbour's front yard the maroon and mahogany smudges on a marimba's keys the exclamation mark of my excitement the blend of calls from a Gondwana Voices performance the morning dew that lingers glistening leaves the laughing stars of the midnight sky the ripples in the sea as flying fish glide off the footprints that a seagull makes along the beach the fragrance of a bouquet of sweet-smelling flowers the crispness of rich orange leaves of Autumn the blinding beauty of a photograph at dawn there is nothing quite like you”
—nothing quite like, by composeandcontort続きを読む… →
