A Symphony of All Deaths

Now, I am sitting in dark, in the front of some McDonald’s. I know it’s bit sad to sit in nowhere whilst watching the city flows right besides you, those neon and bus stops reduced into haze now. I am listening to Luys I Luso, the light of lights. Where is light, you tell me?

I am always lamenting, mourning, crying for anemoia – a reminiscence that does not exist. When I see those high-rises, I can’t help but to think where is God. If God truly exists, will he permits that kind of travesty where people struggle so hard just for a chance to climb the ladder? I remember my childhood differently, it seems like a meadowland of mischief, under an overcast sky. There’s no sunshine in my memories, the sky is only clear when it’s night. So cold, it shelters no warmth inside.

The skyscrapers are confounding, to say at least. It seems like a crystal tower, everything is so spotless and immaculate, hiding the dirties under the disguise of the blazing cleanliness. Every time I arrive at a skyscrapers, I see cadavers falling from rooftop. It’s the silent scream, made in last ditch, of people so meaninglessly failing the labyrinth. I eat and jump from the dead to the living. The mother of death is so gracious that she’s taking all souls isolated from vitality.

In a humid, bone-freezing monastery, I wake up. I am overwhelmed by stone walls, so high that even penetrate the overcast sky. Am I awake, or am I dreaming? Those walls, those cenotaphs like sombre, twisted corpses, accusing the tortures they’ve sustained. I haven’t ever seen human flesh can be that twisted, even indistinguishable from a thunder-stricken wood.

Symphonies and fugues have commenced their azure voyages. Behold! The four horsemen have torn the overcast sky, and the sky turning into crimson fire as the eclipse dawn. I walk under the blaze sky, yet everyone smiles and talks so loud, in their cacophony I listen to singular silence. My boots are soaked with blood. CAN’T RETURN TO NORMALCY!!! No peace with occupation.

There’s no truce in Bethlehem, no freedom in Area A. Oslo achieved nothing. The border is plighted with wall tearing lands apart. A silence abyss, like a edgeless pool – Israelis overwatch Palestinians suffer in silence. For unto us a child is born, and his name shall be called the Prince of Peace. From the river to the sea, death will equate us all. I walk down by the chasm of border, in unutterable cry from the Palestinian mother, I listen. There’s no darkness.

Father, I see dawn. The overwatch has blown the horn of light. I shall run, and I shan’t cease. An illuding light, so blaze, so tender, so cold yet encompassing. The light of death. The light carries a negligible trace of blue, rendering it so white, pure, and freezing. Father, here I come. Why, though, you sacrificed my life, to brighten up the twilight moment of Bethlehem? There is no truce.

We shall meet again in a place without darkness.