and then our exile

ash monday.

because i was born on the winter wind
because i grew under the stars
and because i hoped to turn again

this is the life of words. we are made up of our words, our words are our minutes, our silence is growing quiet, and the mute rape below conflicting voices, the amputations given many names, are each dissipate. this time this moment this choice, continuous.

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
--TSEliot

seemstress says: like that game where you pass the box around and when someone says stop, whoever has it opens it and there you are.
ash monday. says: like the game where each person says a word and that word is the hangman's noose.
seemstress says: i think you play with the wrong kids.