There is a strange sickness amoung us,
a dark ideal,
that sours our souls from within,
leaves marks of question on our bodies,
wrinkles, scars, tattoos.

The same sickness,
that causes milk to reinvent itself
in the noon day sun,
from a sweet, cool flow,
to a curdled mass,
slowly bubbling with discontent,
deceit.

The first time the sickness came,
the old ones fasted for days,
scratched themselves with garfish teeth,
then dove head long into the mirky depths.
Searching for answers,
on the smooth stones
which live on river bottoms.

When they emerged, cured,
they saw strange men on shore,
staring with menacing, curious,
eyes from afar.

What is this sickness,
this philosophy,
thick with all that we are not?

It is the belief that all things
in this world, except ourselves,
are dead!