Hearts tamed of passion still feel, still love. Yet the blood runs thin there and the throb of the universe is a measured metronomic tick marking time in even steps. Their success is on its way to Byzantium where the passion of poets is enshrined in gilded automata, and Irish nightingales chained to a pedestal set in a page of history, and the pulsing heart of humanity commemorated in tapestries of dead thread hung upon the crumbling walls of the stone cold ages.
I would rather be a thief stealing from poets, stealing across grass green as fire, wild as the fire that first set fire to the stars, stealing fire from jealous gods. I would rather chant and throb in the campfire drums of joy where wine and laughter howl and lovers steal into shadows domed in stars, where the river slips and pools and churns down through rock to the ancient sea beneath the ancient moon.
I would rather children raised themselves and lived with wolves and mated for life and loped and ran down to death in fierce and gentle arcs across the hillside pines; I would rather be where the heart hears pain howling and moves gently to it to be near, where mind does not remove itself to a distance in embarrassment and fear.
These are the days of the gaijin zaibatsu and uneconomical genocide.
I would rather be dry bones cradling dry bones in a cave than a fleshly priest; I would ring the shivering bells and feel Esmeralda dance, and die, rather than kiss the cold golden crucifix.