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