[thisislife]

Part of me still sleeps in the midday breeze, where the clouds trawl above me and eat the sky. There is a inkling in my mind that there were once giants in this place. And they would scrape the heavens with their limbs; they would swing the moon on their chains. Part of me wonders where they went. Part of me has no reason to wonder: it cries murder in the treetops, points to the rivers — here, here is the blood, here is the massacre in a thousand streams that slosh across our fresh-combed shores. Part of me wishes to hold a gun. What a thing we have been, to prick those wandering things into oblivion as though they were a mist. A vision. And the part of me that sleeps dreams. And in my dream the clouds swoop low, and the birdsong chattles, and from the shadow of the sun comes a long shade, drawn thick on the earth, and it sings and it sings of all that has passed, and all that will come on earth.

And then from the horizon there are the giants. Would it be that I were that beastly or that feral. Would it be that I could scrape the stars with my teeth, tread the ground with such presence, and nestle into the pounding weight of an ocean. Would it be that I could sleep for ages, and ages, and eons below the crust of the earth, burbling into the soil and counting my minutes in the generations of Man.

And I would sing and I’d sing of all that has passed, and all that is yet to come.