September Eleven

The jungle is hot, hard, and very real.
In there you can only but deeply feel,
that inside exist all cosmic laws,
from blemishes and sores to musical scores,
galactic miracles,
universal pinnacles,
in a race towards an endless fate;
where saints, psychos and a child contemplate,
upon the joy of life
and the end of strife;
upon the fun of the day,
and the stress on the way.
The jungle is an organic paradox
and like Pandora’s Box
it can open up a bag of worms,
yet simultaneously it affirms
that all is green, lush and cool,
and that intent and attitude is the only tool
required to survive through the vegetation layers,
amidst the arboreal players –
the butterflies, asps and gorrillas,
the funghii wizards and amoebic guerillas.
As the dew trickles down from the leaves
and prehensile tails hang on to the eaves,
the jungle gives a home to all possible being,
where deaf hears and blind is seeing,
where the impossible can be done
and the unthinkable can run
amok like a deadly disease
demolishing the two most splendrous trees,
leaving three thousand souls in the rubble,
none of which did ever cause any trouble.
Now they lay and become humus.
Yet, perhaps from these nasty tumours,
will come, a more resilient oath,
ready to recognise any cancerous growth
and to take them out through diplomatic collaberation,
and not futile, belligerent retaliation.
And to recognise, just as well,
some forest creatures also live in hell,
some need to find a more suitable niche for their existence
and must be aided to prevent any form of resistance.
The jungle contains all emotions, desires and dreams,
all songs, prayers and terrified screams.
So let’s set its mind into a state of peace
and give all those souls the chance of release.

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