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The Bolt, Jean-Honore Fragonard, 1778

Across the house of renouncing doves, moon’s light has shaped tonight like the roof of my estranged lover.

All the years in between now erased having dissolved in the reappearance of the shade of moon only we knew.

It is folly to return to the same unlit street where the lovers hide, where creatures of river bring a tear to his eyes,

to think that remembrance of the soft feathers is evidence of promise of union, a reunion,

or that abandonment then was a needed escape for the freedom of lives to follow, for myths to stay alive.

It is folly to sit and wonder about the truth and justice of our embrace, about the disease and phobia of our demise. …

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Spirit of the drought, Arthur Streeton 1895

Tropical storms built these leaves of homes. Without promised light of the holiest sun, they are with holes now, their flesh vanishing in the air of this consciousness. I calculate their disappearance by counting the number of dawns I have walked to the sanctuary of the monk. I ask him why should I believe in his dreaming eyes, that his hymn for invoking the goddess is rather irritating now when my leaves have been eaten up by the ancient reptile.

So my land awaits. Rather my lands await. Both that of the ancestors and the descendants. Both desperate in their timeless longing for me. It is only the truth that, I too, dream of them in my fragility from the fears of half crops, of soil without seeds, of waterless fruits. So the drought stretches beyond my sleep of this and the other worlds. Deserts take over the mountains of my grandfather. …

Environmental crisis

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U.S Forest Service- Santa Fe National Forest

Mass deaths of migratory birds

How we lost our songs.
Our flights of the free skies
in tune with the heartbeat of Mother.

Our wings dancing with the winds of other worlds
beyond the horizon of this one
that tends to lose our bluest feathers bit by bit.

Who will tell you now the tales of our journeys
way before from when this world began,
how the music played then,

how the invisible stars were born,
how the infinite moons looked
when no one was there to stare at them during empty nights?

Who will tell you now how the world began
in the black eye of the still river,
how it grew in the lap of…

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