Is this... Marigold Woman? I'm honestly unsure.
A voice said, "Cry!"
But I am a counterfeit penny, a pair of them, and here at the end of the world I cannot open my mouth for fear that I will be struck down. Here at the end of the world I think that it would be best to cover my face and listen to the ghosts and say nothing. Yet I hear the whispers of the last men, those fat beauties, and I hesitate.
Can I let you roll on your wide road, here at the end of the world, and say I did nothing?
Can I bite my tongue while you leach the water from the soil and throw it away, in your country that is dying for want of water, while you take from me even the tears of grief and anger that I cannot contain, here at the end of the world?
Can I stand before this great and silent door, here at the end of the world, with the seagulls crying around me and the dead leaves under my feet, and hold my skull in my hands, and harden my heart against my loves my lo-ammi?
Can I hear the Almighty in those words that one hears with the eye, and not cry out?
Where else can I go? You have the words of eternal life. Whom have I in heaven but You?
A voice said, "Cry!"
And I said, "What shall I cry!"
But I am not a prophet and I have no oracle. I must speak my piece in broken phrases and hope that it is taken in kindness, for the sake of that red blanket I was given on the day they emptied Hell. I cannot even tell you any of this plainly; I have to wrap it up in pretty paper to keep up my courage. You cannot understand the thing I am trying to tell you, unless you have been given to understand.
Here, at the end of the world.
But I am a counterfeit penny, a pair of them, and here at the end of the world I cannot open my mouth for fear that I will be struck down. Here at the end of the world I think that it would be best to cover my face and listen to the ghosts and say nothing. Yet I hear the whispers of the last men, those fat beauties, and I hesitate.
Can I let you roll on your wide road, here at the end of the world, and say I did nothing?
Can I bite my tongue while you leach the water from the soil and throw it away, in your country that is dying for want of water, while you take from me even the tears of grief and anger that I cannot contain, here at the end of the world?
Can I stand before this great and silent door, here at the end of the world, with the seagulls crying around me and the dead leaves under my feet, and hold my skull in my hands, and harden my heart against my loves my lo-ammi?
Can I hear the Almighty in those words that one hears with the eye, and not cry out?
Where else can I go? You have the words of eternal life. Whom have I in heaven but You?
A voice said, "Cry!"
And I said, "What shall I cry!"
But I am not a prophet and I have no oracle. I must speak my piece in broken phrases and hope that it is taken in kindness, for the sake of that red blanket I was given on the day they emptied Hell. I cannot even tell you any of this plainly; I have to wrap it up in pretty paper to keep up my courage. You cannot understand the thing I am trying to tell you, unless you have been given to understand.
Here, at the end of the world.