Song of Ourself: Difference between revisions
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by Isaac Wilder | by Isaac Wilder | ||
We are a creating thing, creating things, | Have I felt so proud, to get at the meaning of freedom?<br> | ||
we are a burning thing, burning things, | Have I stopped and tarried in the rhythm of our new awakening?<br> | ||
we are a liberator, come not to claim. | <br> | ||
We are a creating thing, creating things,<br> | |||
We wake to the sound of our own breath, | we are a burning thing, burning things,<br> | ||
drawing slowly near from the dawn that surrounds us. | we are a liberator, come not to claim.<br> | ||
We wake to the sound of our own hearts, | <br> | ||
echoing the ancient rhythm of slave-beaten drums. | We wake to the sound of our own breath,<br> | ||
We wake to the sound of the city beneath us, | drawing slowly near from the dawn that surrounds us.<br> | ||
which ebbs easily, and lazily, and in syncopation. | We wake to the sound of our own hearts,<br> | ||
echoing the ancient rhythm of slave-beaten drums.<br> | |||
Do you feel the pulse of this consciousness, | We wake to the sound of the city beneath us,<br> | ||
what wakes behind | which ebbs easily, and lazily, and in syncopation.<br> | ||
<br> | |||
Do you embrace the pulse of the-that-without-end, | Do you feel the pulse of this consciousness,<br> | ||
as the genesis of | what wakes behind our eyes before they have blinked?<br> | ||
<br> | |||
Even here, with this impulsive erection, | Do you embrace the pulse of the-that-without-end,<br> | ||
of city walls, and city halls: | as the genesis of our own pulse?<br> | ||
I have never been so proud, to get at the meaning of freedom. | <br> | ||
No. Never. | Even here, with this impulsive erection,<br> | ||
of city walls, and city halls:<br> | |||
I will stop a while, and let the slithering riptides subsume me- | I have never been so proud, to get at the meaning of freedom.<br> | ||
subsume me. | No. Never.<br> | ||
< | <br> | ||
I will stop a while, and let the slithering riptides subsume me-<br> | |||
subsume me. <br> | |||
Latest revision as of 23:05, 11 January 2011
Song of Ourself by Isaac Wilder
Have I felt so proud, to get at the meaning of freedom?
Have I stopped and tarried in the rhythm of our new awakening?
We are a creating thing, creating things,
we are a burning thing, burning things,
we are a liberator, come not to claim.
We wake to the sound of our own breath,
drawing slowly near from the dawn that surrounds us.
We wake to the sound of our own hearts,
echoing the ancient rhythm of slave-beaten drums.
We wake to the sound of the city beneath us,
which ebbs easily, and lazily, and in syncopation.
Do you feel the pulse of this consciousness,
what wakes behind our eyes before they have blinked?
Do you embrace the pulse of the-that-without-end,
as the genesis of our own pulse?
Even here, with this impulsive erection,
of city walls, and city halls:
I have never been so proud, to get at the meaning of freedom.
No. Never.
I will stop a while, and let the slithering riptides subsume me-
subsume me.