The Song of the Witness (Monologue)

All of creation is shaped into the contours of an ear, the gentle dishes and ridges catching the dew as it descends.

Secrets are drawn from the old, and inheritances are found within the pages of history and ancestry. And history is always in between the states of being lost and found. It’s found in the heat of the desert, in barren wastelands and the eagles’ nest, inside rocks and flocks and fields of grapes it’s being found.

It’s lost in the sleekness of time, within idols, within jealousy and anger and justice it is lost.

The song’s subject hides itself when it wants to and vindicates and avenges because it has to, and blood is poured out like wine on the altar, matching the tones of the human body as it lifts itself up and sings.


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