“Each man has a way to betray the revolution This is mine” ~ Leonard Cohen
What revolution, if I may ask, when nothing human is meant to last? Banners lay ragged, dragged in the mud, stepped on. Armies gone, ideas that were once flaunted above their heads have fallen, dead even before the soldiers. What revolution, if I may ask, the one from the outside or the one within, sewed with bitter threads under the skin? The soul, errant like a solitary grain of sand, seeks to break the covenant made with the world and have all masks burned. What revolution is meant to be carried in the heart like a creed, when the human vows weave a thin mesh of banter upon the altering soul, eaten up by eternity’s invisible mould. Ideas glimmer in the chests for awhile sweet promises throbbing fertile, only to be swiftly devoured by time. I read the words, acknowledge the creed, yet the seed of trust in humanity’s dreams dried up inside me and so: “Each man has a way to betray the revolution This is mine” …