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ETERNAL CHICKENS
he lives with his children
in an idyllic village surrounded by chickens,
a two-storey home in yellow fields
where the corn ripens gold
and mayflies live each moment
as if they have found eternity.
the long summer is an eternity
or so it seems to the children
with their capacity to relish each moment
as if every cluck was the last of the chickens
while the evening sun turns to gold,
reflecting the yellow glory of the fields.
the shrieks of laughter across the fields
echo from the hills of eternity,
childlike joy turning sound to gold.
calls and counter calls from children,
running mad like chickens,
exhilarated by every moment.
and here are we, at this moment,
standing together in the nirvana fields,
amidst the homely cluck of chickens
and foreseeing the passage of eternity,
perhaps as fresh as children,
in a world that has turned to gold.
but we are fools and our gold
is a false belief in the moment
when we are returned children,
walking in dreamlike fields
with false hope in our eternity,
scratching in the dirt like chickens.
scratching in the dirt like chickens
as if to find our pot of gold,
scratching for our eternity
with aspirations of no moment,
lost in complacent fields,
dreaming the dreams of children.
are we chickens at this moment?
we seek gold in arid fields,
faking belief in eternity like children.
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