Ars Poetica (L'Nass Shango: the Conversation Continued).

Freedom is an alter ego like a mask Behind which censor has no eyes, and balm its blood applies. Poetry is my freedom when wings cannot fly The pain of the arrow in my solitary eye ... You wrote me as a poem, I write you back so I Can write a poem that invite your poem to tea. I sometimes see me in the mirror of words And cannot recognize who I am How many points of light forms my face alone Making a fable on the faulty foundation of sense Are these suppose to be revelations For I have longings carved like a Grecian Urn The stillness of that eternity frightens me Like is a simily ... a wave of action towards a full intent So many symbols, and everyone alienating Why can't we tell truth in Images Like eggs. A cycle from essence to existence And through all the purposes of each motion Phases of a common solution? Mirrors are not reservoirs, you know, they preserve nothing Let culture preserve what it will My art shall do the selecting of what the will must be For I must preserve truly if only preserve me And do not fear now, some conflict between you and I That my preservation can be your destruction is such a lie Broken mirrors make distinctions A thousand shards point their image at a single eye But feel, when you cannot see Feel the universal solution ... for we are only solutes In the solvents of our meaning You and I the tangents of a simple circle converging I love the breaking of isolation The conversation dissolving us again Into a common brotherhood, beyond the blundering pain Our life is fragment of everything now Politics, economics, physics, dreams and faith Word is but a mirror before us, the senses little gates The mirrored shadow has only one moral imperative here To haunts us till we make it right I exorcised the ghost that bind us up with fear And long to break the mirror too And feel my wings flying in the perfect nothingness. Wait for me, brother. I am coming too Swinging on a beam of star, sipping on love's dew. Measured in unmeasured meter Defying our partition into syllables of spoon Rhyming to mate a synonym exactly to the moon Everything in this solution is never abstraction Never more a ritual of dump imperial traditions I shall break the mirror then, the first act of our liberation And the water shall turn to wine.