To The Young Who Feel No Pain


and have no history

but their own fantasy

of the present moment: I say this


Your ignorance is eternal

you float inside your bodies

thinking you are immortal

(just as we did—)


And all this time within

many tiny hands are preparing your fall

your heartbreak, your shattered glass

ruin that is the slow dawn of compassion


that’s a disaster to your ambition

but salvation to your soul

and all the others you begin to see

realizing how blind you’ve been


enough to goosestep backwards into the night

without consequence: and to walk on by,

but now the anaesthetic’s wearing off

your de-solation awaits you


your first death and second birth

into the hands of a Living God

where we are as grains of sand,

counted like the hairs on your head…and you see


you’re expendable, replaceable, inessential

until your heart opens with who you are

that is our second chance to be human

beneath the monsters with their masks,


servants of the demiurge: I tell you

none of you are free until you fall

out of heirachy: mere fodder in their machine

where you can only begin awaken


sheepish and shorn. Play me the music

that answers to this…the sky is beckoning,

the earth calling where we are centrestage

to its roaring…trumpets of the morning,


salutations to the unseen eye of the sun.


Jay Ramsay
April 30th 2018


Illustration: Claire Palmer


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