Your youth shakes you;
like a drum with rotten skin it
poisons your foresight and makes
anechoic your glorious
sound. You do not hear
the answer calling down from
the mountains, only the
harsh squawk, the caterwaul of
the question:

"What is meaning?" you ask, "What is love?
Meaning is empty knowledge of god; Love is simply
reoccurring lust for a singular body."

Mine is the answer, swelling up from the bog,
rolling down from the mountain:
"Meaning is the full knowledge of oneself—and Love?
Love is self-sacrifice."

Meaning is to sever your long ass-ears and listen
to become Man and to embrace struggle;
Love is to unbind the hands and answer
to become a Child and to take flight.


Been reading Nietzsche lately. R&R.