When entering the Gorge, leave behind all preconceptions. Let yourself be carried off on a stream of consciousness that tickles the heavens as readily as it grinds down stone.

. . . To Hana

The dullness from the sky shall set, despite the buzzing

dragonflies, upon our precious memories and close the lids over our eyes,

and bid the final long goodbye until we meet again anew, as lovers do,

as stories playing out in time

 

Above the isle, the dormant clouds, those sentinels of proud and old,

tell stories of an era gone, forgotten, perhaps absconded, unsold,

shared no more, at least not in the open, not without embellishment

in the thunder and heave of the streams that cultivate the isles

 

They watch, these sentinels, they keep guard alongside the streams below them,

they watch and take heed, eternal keepers of a legacy precious, encountered in sounds

of chants not forgotten, of pride now forbidden, of a history rewritten on the face of a mount,

of culture appropriated, integrated, embezzled, made part of something younger, growing,

effervescent, life evolving, for better or worse, paving the way for the new beasts and their

infant days, their rising appetites, the bees with the hive mind and the billion stingers,

for a dead ringer for madness and revolution, change and perseverance,

freedom and oppression, spearhead and winger. For a sweet, fiery

rearrangement of archive and love.

 

The dullness of the sky shall set upon our precious histories and change them,

adding contours and layers to the legends that keep us alive, and the world

will be transformed yet again, a composite puzzle of enormous beauty,

all of it founded on the simple premise of complexity, on the principle of change, come what may.

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