What sort of intelligence built this?
Footage of blank stucco walls pocked with bullet holes,
children with pots and pans,
fucking forays into the mundane.
The philosophical revelations, the magnificence of art,
The world is not big enough,
the sky too confining.
In the beginning was the word,
and the word was free.
It belonged to everyone,
and the word was enough.
Then came the power,
and it took possession of the word.
Then were heard the cries of women,
the raising voice of the dissident,
the thorny crown, the falling truncheons.
Devastation in its wake,
destruction of the land of dreams.