Oral tradition
Bees following soundwaves I can’t hear, among waves I hate.
Side to winds whispering in my ears.
Noise is a choice, a will to be disturbed.
Noise, I am unable to perceive any purpose.
My legacy is to believe,
I am the son of a mighty God,
all things and creatures and facts, must have a purpose,
this I am doomed to believe.
Purpose is being, becoming, transforming, movement.
That’s all about noise, like the white noise of stars, of ocean waves and blood in my vains.
