Still Life by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Still Life

Page 24

To the flatlands

But they died along the way

And they built up

With their bare hands

What we still can't do today

And I know she's living there

And she loves me to this day

I still can't remember when

Or how I lost my way

He came dancing across the water

Cortez, Cortez

What a killer

Written by Neil Young.

Hate was just a legend and war was never known. People worked together and they lifted many stones. And they carried them to the flatlands. But they died along the way. And they built up with their bare hands what we still can't do today.

There were no wars over ideology; only passive rivalries over who had the most poetic funeral rites or the most tragic national dish. Trade existed, but only in the form of ceremonial gift exchanges. A Welsh bard might send a sonnet to a Russian ice sculptor, who would reply with a frozen ode to melancholy.

Technology was local. The Irish used moss powered radios. The Russians had steam driven melancholy machines that always conked out prematurely. The Polish had perfected the art of passive-aggressive weather forecasting.