Imagine my surprise when after having read and reread M’s email, unsettling and mysterious, and then after having driven aimlessly for hours to the harbor in the north, watching the huge ships dock and depart, and after having then returned home to seek a peace in my studio, in my studies and research, imagine my surprise when this particular piece of poetry came unaided to my screen. Had I searched for this? Had I subconsciously sought out this provocateur? My mind is confused, at sea with the possibilities.
“The spirits in the hills, they're from the old blood, a time before our rise, before the great flood. The spirits in the hills, they yearn for new blood, a tangle for the killing, the next million.
The stars up in the sky, they're from the first light, a time before our rise, before the great night. The stars up in the sky, they yearn for new light, a tangle for the killing, the next million. Ouroboros.
The pages in the book, they're from the first word, a time before our rise, a prayer once never heard. The pages in the book, they yearn for new words, a tangle for the killing, the next million.
The flow within my blood, it's from the spirit, a time after the rise of the great spirit. The flow within my blood is granted by the spirit, and spirit willing for the next million. Ouroboros.”
I feel as though the book is back with me, moving me, pushing me in directions not my own. Did I seek the ships in the north, the ships which brought my mind to Ouroboros? I am but a slowly moving vessel, moving further into the darkness, away from home. And now my unease has a new fear, a new name, for the name attributed to the poem is but a single letter, “V”, with an undersign, “Vargas, the wolf”.
- K