How art thou upon this morn, where grass is green and children born, where mothers weap and brothers mourn, the passing of their still-born... Tiredness flows around me, waves ebbing receeding. I allow them to encircle me the wish to write overcomes and I unheeding, plunge into the stream of language, of syntax. I allow it to carry me away, mine is the battle field, the words to enspire thoughts, moods, actions, deeds long remembered and forever lost. The stuff of legend perhaps? Or just a failiure... read more
