The burden of impurity

Where did the burden against purity
emerge from?
Where did the burden of impurity
emerge from?
We were too young to nourish our own elegance and we had to marry the beasts of time, who promised
to grace us with a priceless heaven. Now we breathe smokes of dirty waters, garbage of rotten delights
and mercies of tasteless juices.
The fires have ceased to burn our deceptive charm – who will butter our bread with cries of a decent
revolution? Days of ponder against the old clocks seem to be the visions of our reality. The paths to the
promise land are paved with random twist and turns whose songs are too melodious to resist yet very
tempting to blunder.
Many are the leaves of our charisma, too silky to gaze away, very monstrous to behold still, extremely
zealous to ignore and indeed, too divine to hide. Listen to the pots of the universe giving sermons of
wrath against mankind’s own tragedies, in an attempt to make the kitchen the light of dawn.
Immaculate is the cheapest form of beauty, painted by artificial yolks of mucus, whose source is neither
the wells of heaven nor the mine of gold. The rocks keep on writing the walls with pens of tears, hoping
that out of the blue, the lonely forests will listen to calls for justice decreed in the holy books of the
ancient of days.
Why have we struggled to make the filthy history a permanent grave? It’s because the roots of such
history are still intact to the umbilical cords of the unborn generations, whose blood sing nothing but
innocence yet are partakers of the unforeseen bloody decrees.
Messengers of pleasures have no reason to divorce the bible of vanity because their blood is not as pure
as a new born. The sandals of bliss have become a stranger on our verandas and we foolishly blame the
floor for this predicament – not knowing that the issue is deeper than what the eyes of flesh can
contemplate.
Slowly, the nails are escaping their holes, pleading for adequate measures of sanctity, praying for their
share of the priceless prize and hoping the blues will somehow replace the rhythm of the status quo. No
amount of tears has wiped away our wounds, no exquisite choir has sang away our myths, no talented
dancer has burned our stage with fires of honey but our sentiments cling to the mighty hands of the
unseen man who can walk on water without being swallowed, and who can make the winds, the fuming
seas, the monstrous mountains and vicious forests bow at his command.

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