( Ben Heine Art ) After it all falls, falls away, after it all falls, falls away, I will greet you. The green ground is wet again in the St. Francis Forest, it is weeping for what’s taken place, and the deer look sad, like old bullfrogs sunk in the swamps puffing their throats. I will meet you by the cabin, by the moss-green cellar door with the rusty handle and we will hold one another and the bullfrogs will bellow their melancholy. The world’s gone mad, my dear, and no one seems to care. We’re happiest breathing air the color of smoke and swilling fury like a rabid dog tethered down. But something’s changed, the gait of man, teeth show more than before, as if we’re grinning beneath our howls, happiest when our foul fists crack against innocent flesh. Something’s changed my dear, something awful. In our quest for compassion, our search for ourselves, we’ve come to greet the moon like beasts and we’ve come to crave this ill-used madness like addicts of f...
(The Weaver's Song)