On Rosh Hashanah it is written,
And on Yom Kippur it is sealed.
How many shall die while they call call it “life”
How many shall live on in the universal Infinite, despite our best worldly and deathly
efforts to erase their immortal names
Who shall be bombed into the next world and will who will make their mortal names and their bones
on the Board of Peace in this one
Who will go on living and who will simply die waiting
Who will have years and and who will have seconds
Who will die by the water that is actually fire and fire that is actually water
Who by firebomb’s blast and who by the tongue of snakes,
Who by state-sanctioned starvation and who by the social media cage of distractible thirst-traps,
Who by climate inaction and who by vaccine-less measles,
Who by the terrified grip of the manosphere and who by the terrifying heart stones of griefs, endless griefs, and decided lack of genuine love,
Who shall vacation in the summer and who shall be enslaved without rest in perpetual winter,
Who shall live in peace and who shall live without justice or peace,
Who shall be calm and carry on and who shall be anxious and screaming,
Who shall be publicly praised and who shall be publicly murdered,
Who shall become a billionaire and trillionaire and who shall be jobless, hopeless and undone by the horrors of a a capitalist system that monetizes daily human carelessness.
A still small voice troubles the flock of obedient sheep
Closing the old book and
Opening the path to redemption.
“There is a field without a king.”
To repair.
Go there.
To act-as-prayer.
End there.
To make right.
Start there.
Blessed is the True Love.
