A poem I wrote some­time two years back about the human nature’s destruc­tive ide­o­log­i­cal cer­tain­ty. Initially I was frus­trat­ed by such a ten­den­cy on the Right, but recent­ly I’ve start­ed notic­ing it on the Left too where it grew dan­ger­ous­ly in the last few years.

We wipe our dust-stained lens­es,
Presuming clar­i­ty.
Yet we see the dust the same as vul­gar­i­ty,
When the odd dimen­sions of our real­i­ty
Could nev­er com­pre­hend the idea
That the dust has been here since for­ev­er.
That we are the ones who are new.

The odd dimen­sions are too few
In the skies and the earth we view,
Presuming to know which way is up, and down.
Whichever way the dust nev­er set­tles,
We point our fin­gers to it and call it “Paradise”.

We wipe our dust-stained lens­es,
Presuming clar­i­ty,
Where it will rise, defy­ing all grav­i­ty,
Only to set­tle back on the mile-long roads
Where we think we’ll find “Paradise”.

No mat­ter how much we kick the dust in the air,
The gale scat­ters it around as we stare,
Bewildered. No mat­ter how unwant­ed, unfair,
The dust, no stranger, has always been there.
It makes the earth we stand on.
It will dirty the water we drink,
But it will love a tree enough to make it bare fruit
For every bit of hope for every step we take.

Still, we still wipe our dust-stained lens­es,
No mat­ter at whose expens­es
For the sake of reduced dimen­sions
That rejects the heav­ens at all direc­tions
But one.
We will run for the office to preach our dis­mal truths,
Or we gun down feet with dif­fer­ent boots,
And when the suns shines
On the blood of the youth,
We’ll find the dust set­tling again
On the vacant bod­ies, that will stand hor­i­zon­tal­ly,
Their heads point­ing at dif­fer­ent direc­tions,
And we will pre­sume
They have lost their com­pass.

They will no longer wipe their dust-stained lens­es,
As if try­ing to say,
It’s this way, and that way,
And this way, and that!
It’s every place our limbs, skulls and
And dead gazes are point­ing at.
Here, there’s no up nor down,
No per­fec­tion, no dis­cord, no crown.
It’s actu­al­ly not that excit­ing,
And you’d know if you’ve seen the gust
That blows the dust,
To com­plete every rose,
Every crust in eyes that will nev­er open,
To remind us
That it’s an easy one-way tick­et.
Take the time to cher­ish what you leave behind
Before you go and get it.”

These voic­es scat­ter into the wind
And turn into dust, like they always do.
Then we pick our col­ored dusty lens­es
And we wipe it
Like we always do.


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