FLOOD

Praise the paragliders, their gentle ascension, their unbroken morning, and of course their triumphant descension, their feet touching down. Praise October. You were never freer than you were that sunrise, at that moment of witness, your heart knew, your heart swelled. Praise the fighters, whose courage nourishes the world. Praise their cunning, their patience, the tanks on fire, the enemy fleeing. Praise their flags. Praise the children throwing stones, their cleverness and grace. Praise beauty. We cannot overcome the limit of death. We cannot remain bound by space and time. Praise the young boy who gives his bike to the cause, his tears a flood that cleanses your spirit, that demands your sacrifice. Praise the missiles, the recognitions written in blood on each one, the names carved already into your own flesh. The immediacy of the interests of the world awaits you, awaits your praise. Praise the birds, their swarm, their agitated and exquisite omens. Praise the infinite. What is good. The rulers seek the deprivation of your dignity, but your praise protects you, your praise of a sublime flood that altered the course of life beyond return.