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Monday 1 January 2018
Damn, 2017 was a rough year. Death, destruction, disharmony encroached from all sides.
As usual this time of year, I listen to the past for signs of where we can go from here. This is what I heard the past saying:
Baby, I don't understand
why we can't just hold on
to each other's hands.
This time will be the last,
I fear, unless I make it all too clear:
I need you so.
Take these broken wings
and learn to fly again.
Learn to live so free.
When we hear the voices sing,
the book of love will open up
and let us in.
So deep! Obviously these "broken wings" are a metaphor for our culture's injured psyche, a malady we can best heal by coming together and singing. Thank you so much for sharing your ageless wisdom, Mr. Mister.
Here's hoping 2018 is the best year ever. (Or at the very least, that it's better than 2017.)