The blue tip of the flower of my mind is explored only by those with the insight to incite me to a violent lust quenched by the wine bearers, even though I’m wine bearing. This is the code of my order, which is rarely explored in the way we would expect– but in the most demeaning tones tongues are turned against us. We watch them, the mortals, torn apart by the conflicts they’ve created. We watch in shadows, perhaps complacent, but only because we lack the power but only the grace to move through life without inflicting ourselves upon it. We watch and then we finally move in a way only caressing until smoke fades into the gray night sky. Then we emerge with harps and stares to sit at your feet by the fire, with frail hands extended and stroking the sounds in the air.
Air what are you full of but that which in a moment I motioned up in the center of the universe? To you I am nothing and I can’t blame you. You do not know what the soft sounds mean to me air, you insistent that the sounds should mean nothing. You think that I should be hard, air, you think I should work in the mills and the factories, air, you like the dark smoke, air, you like the tired limbs pushing the house door after dark, rushing to food the next morning, air. The blue tip of the flower of my mind is touched by you and it crumbles under your gust as you overtake me. Surely, there must be a way to survive long enough to be by the fire, to sit by yout feet and play. I’ve got a song, a song few people know. It goes like this. Wait. Listen. Any minute now.