Now all there is are crumbled histories, ruins of the olden times, ruins of lives and empires, of men and beasts alike. Their fall tells us about the times long gone, but tells us about our fall to come, as well. Our homes will turn to ruins, and so will our lives and our empires. We will also be shallow graves of ancient times, of riches and emptiness. We will tell stories that no one may be able to understand. Our graves will scream things that people will not hear and our monuments will yell at the world, and the world will only pass them by.

I wish to fall asleep among the ruins, and to wake up to find them whole.

And why was it granted only to birds? Do they feel when the winds rush into their feathers, do they breathe as we never will? Are the birds free, eternal? Do they watch us from above and pass judgement like we do when we put ourselves on pedestals and thrones? Birds have never judged. It is in their nature to soar above us all, but never to judge, never to complain, never to kill out of prejudice.

Owls, the messengers of death and the mediators of wisdom. Eagles, the predators with mercy, the all-seeing ones. Hawks, of the Sun. Vultures, the devourers of decay. Before the gods were men, they were birds. And in all their glory, they still soared, unchanging, never judging. Instead of learning from them, we plucked their feathers and cut off their wings and attached it to our crowns and thrones. But the birds still fly, thus still living. They still see the worlds above the clouds; thus still breathing. They still grow wings; thus still existing. They still let the wind carry them; thus still feeling. Feeling what we’ve traded for machines.

It will never be granted to us. We forgot how to soar.

Since the first man became a traveller, much time has passed. He moved through the freezing snowstorms, slowly, yet surely; he saw the moving shadows of monstrosities that hurled towards the plains of grass and he followed them. The sparkling snow creeped into him, but he walked on, following the steps of herds. And he emerged from darkness and cold and saw the lands before him; so green, so empty and yet so full of life. He ran with the horses until they became his friends, he followed the bulls until they became his gods. There was everything around him, but he needed more; he knew that the world is bigger and that there are much more lands to see and feel. He caged his friends to chariots and let them guide him towards the unknown. And the horses rushed across the plains and deserts and other people looked at the traveller, amazed. He conquered the land behind him and made beasts his friends. His chariot was like the sun and he was the creator of myths. Every man followed the traveller, for he knew what was there to see in the future. And they reached the roaring waters; rivers that could drown mountains, lakes that engulfed worlds and then, the sea. The sea he saw was the universe. It roared like nothing that ever graced the Earth. The waves he met told him they came from afar, where they met others just like him, the ones who stood on the brink of the universe, looking at the endless mass of creation. And the traveller looked at his chariot and wished it could carry him across the seas. The sea laughed and began to dance and the traveller decided to build a chariot that will dance with it. And they danced. His chariot turned into a ship, lead not by horses, but by the winds. He let the winds guide his dance with the sea and his journey across the waters began. The traveller saw beasts of the water, the ones who needed no ships to dance with the sea and he saw the mountains rising from it, defying the cruel sea. No matter how long the sea tried to beat them, the mountains stood there, as guardians of men. But the traveller knew that the sea is not their enemy; it is their most valued friend, the one who connects all the travellers. So he travelled with it, and not against it. And the sea loved the traveller for it, and the winds graced him like the horses before them.

The traveller connected the world and soon, knew how to move along the lands. He paved the grass with roads and he conquered the sea with routes where the winds always blew in his favour. And when he was good, they carried him, and when he was bad, the storms drowned him. But the traveller did not give up. He knew that there are more lands to conquer, more lands to see, more lands to own and travel across. So he stood before the biggest sea yet, the one without an end, and dared to cross it. Exactly because he dared, the sea was not angry and storms did not stop him. The traveller was graced with the new land, the one he dreamed about in the days long past, when he followed the monsters out of the snow. He always knew that there is more.

Travellers met and created the new world. And after the wars amongst the dead, the traveller realized that the land and sea are no longer enough. He looked up to the sky and saw the smiling clouds. If the wind carried him across the sea, it could carry him across the sky. And the traveller turned his chariots and his ships into machines that defied the land and the sea. He could finally fly. From the air, his lands and his seas looked so tiny, so small and insignificant. So he decided to leave them. And the first traveller pushed the Earth hard and left the world. Once, he feared that the edge of the world is at the first mist, at the first mountain, river and the sea. And now there were no more edges but the one in the sky and he learned that is was not the edge at all. The traveller saw the Earth beneath him, so small and he was surrounded by the darkness again. He always believed that the sky will be bright and not like the darkness from which he first came. But then he understood that his tiny little world is only one amongst the many out there and that he has not met all the travellers. There are travellers all around him, the ones just like him, looking at the distant sparkling lights and thinking about the worlds far away, worlds that we may never be able to travel to. The traveller, however, smiled. He knew what he thought when he saw the sea. The universe is nothing but another sea, so vast, dangerous and mysterious, but ultimately, the sea that connects rather than the one that separates. The traveller waved at the distant stars, knowing that other travellers cannot see him, but also knowing that they too are waving. Maybe with their hands, maybe with their weapons, but they are waving, because every traveller can feel others like him and their common longing to meet, longing to be carried by the horses and the winds.

This is for all of them, the travellers, who ventured into the unknown and brought the world together.

But words will form again. They always do.

The eye of the storm is only a pause, and so is peace. Will we ever get to see the calm seas after the storm? Will humanity ever see the poetic beauty of peace; of perfect silence, beating sun at the centre of the sky? Will we ever wake up after dreams of death and see the true beauty of the ends of worlds; rebirth of our conscience?

We shall pass through many more days of rage until we reach the point when we’ll be tired of waking up to hate, but when we do one day, we will know the most beautiful part of the end of the world; birth of the new one.

I saw when they launched the rockets to the sky; roaring thunders weren’t much of a sound compared to the rockets that created a deafening noise, silencing all who stood near to cry for the Sun. The rockets were so big; bigger than the crying mass, louder than the mourning. And they carried death, right up to the sky. The dust and the smoke clouded the world and the rockets left Earth, storming towards the Sun. The universe tried to hold them back, but the rockets, the power of greed, was stronger; they defied the laws of physics only to run faster than the light, to reach the Sun before anybody could stop them and before the universe itself could intervene. We had less than minutes to congratulate on our success and only minutes to cry for the Sun; the rockets reached it and stood in front of it without the feel of awe. The rockets glared at the face of the Sun, coldly, without shame, and launched the missiles of death; without sound, without the cries, without remorse. We wanted to grasp the golden dust, to grab the riches that lied stored in the Sun for billions of years, and in only a few seconds, instead of that, we shut down the great star. As the missiles collided with the Sun, it broke, burst into millions of colours, erupted and vomited all the gold dust which flew into the universe and disappeared. No humans, nor the rockets managed to grab it; it disappeared along with the Sun which slowly withered away, like a poor flower in winter. We were able to look at its face, its dying face, and we saw nothing at all. No awe, no glory, no pride and no life. The Sun died and we fell into the darkness, freezing darkness of endless pain. That’s when the humans mourned from the deepest corner of their hearts for the first time.

It is estimated that there are 1,200,000,000,000,000,000,000 kilograms of gold in the Sun.

Will we kill the Sun for it?

But recently, I’ve seen you turning your backs on me; have you grown so much already? However, growing up would mean that you finally grasped what it means to be a part of the world, and yet your actions seem more childish than ever; you are poking everything that moves with bombs, you are spilling my blood just to see how much it can flow around you, your curiosity does not let me sleep at night because of all the lights that blot out the most beautiful sight you can lay your eyes upon; the sight of stars. The stars blink at me and only at me; you cannot see them any more, and they have millions of stories to tell. But now they only tell them to me, altered; they informed me of your arrogance and they cried. The stars are also our brothers and sisters, our mothers and fathers, our grandparents and our friends. They advised me to act upon you, to open your eyes once more, to make you look at the world around you, to explain, make you stop.

I am shaking, my children. I am shaking with remorse at your blindness. I am shaking in fear of your ignorance. I am shaking in pain at your indifference. Why have you done this to your Mother? For she will not be able to protect you forever; I am slowly fading into your memory and soon, nobody will remember how I looked, nobody will even care to open their eyes, to touch the grass, to greet a shy lamb that approaches unknowingly. It will be struck down with the flames and spears, levelled with the ground. And I will still beg you to stop, I will still shake in hope you will drop the machines from your hands and come to comfort your Mother. The hope will never die and nor shall I.

Mother Earth

In times so distant they don’t even exist, the Trees never cried. Their blossoms thrived, lived and died happily. The Trees never knew pain or torture, never fell down to the pits and always enjoyed the first sun rays that the Sun so selflessly gave us. Green was the colour of the world, of life, of memories and dreams. Trees stood everywhere, admiring the world just as the world admired them back and in that admiration the balance was created, a connection, a way of Nature.

Then we came. With our red death, walking through the Trees as if they didn’t mean a thing. The Trees began to feel us; they felt the flames, the axes, the falling, but most of all, they felt how the balance was slowly fading into nothingness. Green was no longer the colour of the world; it was red, the colour of blood and fire.

The house of the gods slowly began to burn, from its icy roots, killing the dead on the way up, up towards the strong log that encircled the world; it burned and burned, slowly failing to defend, crumbling like a twig. The fire managed to climb into the branches and it ate them, slowly, crunching their bones and veins and a heart. The Tree lost its heart; it burnt down along with its soul and body. The Tree fell down into a puddle of ashes and we never let the seed bloom again; we planted cement and bricks all over the ashes of our home.

I am human kind. And I am a fool.

Prometheus of the modern world, launched the rockets towards the great palace of the gods. He stood on his destined rock where he caught, killed, cooked and ate the great eagle, making towers of death with its bones. Prometheus unbound, stood and laughed at the falling stones of the house of gods; their palace on fire, fire they wanted to keep so much. But Prometheus tore the rock and its chains, jumped down among men and summoned the fire he gave them. Fire woke up and flew to its master, leaving the world in darkness. And from the fire he gathered, he created a bomb; a bomb which he dropped onto the world, laughing with demons that began to cry upon seeing a shock wave that wiped out everything, until there was only desert left. Even death started to cry while Prometheus of the modern world flew up high in his fire-spitting machine and left us in pieces.

Modern heroes live with guns, bombs and destruction. They think they can solve all problems with their desired weapons, they are shooting everything, they drop their bombs on children and flowers, they eat our animals raw and alive, like some old primordial shamans of death, hoping to gain powers that we’ve lost to machines.

Modern heroes are not here to save us. They are here to shoot us and eat us.

Listen. See. Feel.