This is the age of clocks... An age where we must ask, what have we become If we've already bled and there's no time to heal? We needn’t weep for what’s been done, We must weep for what will come. Weep for what will enter if noise is our king. Wail for the living, those hungry, that they sing. Weep for the mother, weep for what we’ve forgotten. Weep for the child whose eyes seek only peace. Weep for the gods who seek our noisy termination. Weep for the clamor that keeps food from our lips. Weep that the Truth of water coats our barren tongues. Remember… there remains the rake of love, Cells of kindness swimming in us like fish. In this, the age of clocks… © 2010 by mark prime
(The Weaver's Song)