Untitled #14

[Sepia]

We are lost in the wilderness of the cities, where mad prophets roam and all men queue at the manholes, waiting for their turn at the machinery underground, making the blood and money roam the corridors of our sewage system, a heritage we should be proud of but think little of. How it came to be in the old days, before god gave us soap and everywhere smelled like a prison down south as water rationing replaced liquor rationing.

We dream of a mighty tempest that should sweep over our shores, crush our lands and turn them upside down, make kings mortal and no matter how much of a tyrant the king was, the beggars will share their cups, the beggars will tell of the wisdom they have gathered in the streets like the streets drank the blood of insurgents and soldiers alike. We dream of utopia for we know it is not real, not in the hearts of men, not in the hands of men.

We are all simple folk, there are nothing old left in this world, save the rituals and the traditions, the reasons they were founded long since driven away into the magic and the mystique.

[Pæs]