“Don’t feel too much,

Benumb yourself,”

They lull you to sleep,

“Hush a bye baby on the treetop,

When the wind blows the cradle will rock,”

Forgetting that

“When the bow breaks the cradle will fall,

Down will come baby, cradle and all.”


Their little cradle of wishful thinking-

Their flimsy enclosure of all-is-well,

Is breaking,

The bow that ties this cradle high up

In the world of privileged ignorance

Is breaking,

The knots of safety from thought

And protection from change,

Are breaking;


But they will still pat you on the back,

Say that you ought to “stay on track”,

“Don’t feel too much, benumb yourself,

Let pain be a book biting dust on the shelf,”

Fire is ablaze but they will repeat one line:

“Trust us, everything is fine.”


But their hut of lies is burning,



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