EZEKIEL

The time has come. We have shuttered the windows; we have locked the doors; we have put out the candles and the hearth fire. This is our little darkness; this is our little death.

And now we’ve come so far: don’t let the rope blister your hands. Break your head as if upon a stone; come, let me see what’s in that great expanding brain of yours.

We know it, we all know it: they shall come for us: we are lost. The doors and windows of this building lead to earth; there is nothing but deep earth behind the walls: we are buried deep underground, we are a little glimmer of light shinning deep underground, where all is pitch, the home of the earthworms. Come, let your light shine next to mine: we shall drink wine by the riverside and forget the winter. This is our lovely moment: you have no crucible now: you have lost your battle: come, let us celebrate defeat.

And now this is something you cannot bear to see, a sight that burns your eyes, a sound that haunts your ears: your face is red with rage, you have bound your heart in chains. You sink deep into yourself and will never rise again: this is your lonely paradise, sweet torment.

But what of these vines? Are they not lovely, and blooming, and is it not springtime? Has not the grass turned green, are not the fallow meadows choked with wildflowers and weeds, is not the air overflowing with sick life? Still, this is all something of a needle, something sharp, something cutting like a knife. After all, your heart is entwined in the thickness of the fallow field, your mind is filled with life coming in and going out like bee swarms, your eyes are livid and your face is florid.

Come lie with me, sweet man: we shall bear our fathers up, and hold no one accountable for misdeeds and sins: we shall be friends, you and I, and I shall teach you how to live like a goat, a simple, humble goat: this is all I ask of life: do not put your sins heavily around my neck: I am no threat.

And now the world has tilted; everything has gone off kilter; there is nothing quite right, everything is wrong, there is not one thing that is perfect, not anything.

We have gone to the waters; we have dipped our buckets in the pond: the water is sweet, and full of living things: this is not unclean, young man, you must learn where your fathers came from, and learn of their youthful limberness.

What is the world but a great chaos, unpredictable, as unpredictable as whatever will strike my senses next?

This is your lamb’s blood; this is your bread cake; I am unashamed; I have broken the cord that sits above your head and connects you to the universe: and you are blinded.