There is more to the story of us
than we have told each other,
than we have found back
in old family photo’s,
in our genes, in rituals
Hidden in dark caves and old riverbeds
some creatures live that we don’t know
and where they started their journey,
or if they fit in that of our own,
remains to be seen.
Still we think of them and call them dragons.
Nothing we know of this,
is true or false, as we can’t judge,
there is no beginning nor end
and still it’s a story.
We live in it, slowly turning the pages,
making poems about it.
Nobody found it so far and many of us gave up looking
but it is there. Maybe the mothers will know it before anyone else,
but it is there. Ask for it, hope for it, go for it.
Perhaps the scientist will discover it, and die with a smile on his face,
but it is there. Be in it, feel in it, stay in it.
Find it. You are the only one who knows where to look.
And I don’t know what it is either.
I should have known the reason that trees died
in streets this man passed by, their leaves just fell
and clouds went darker, where ever he would dwell
while thunderstorms would put him in white light.
I should have known this season was alright
for him to spread on earth his sulphur smell.
While black crows flew across the old dry well,
a sudden silence came into the night.
The man had gone, now what was it he took
from our small village? No one dared to look.
I should have known: from then on, we knew freight.