The blood runs – and it sings
to listen is the trick.
The flesh sits, and its past
there with it, subterranean
we mine it, and we
ask not for excuses.
We take the work as is,
not how it aspires us to be
with moral wishes.
We are not children – we read
of the childhood of all things;
the darkness recedes only then,
when you follow the light back to source
– and you recognise the shadow
(for not all darkness is shadow).
It is the physical labour of thinking.
But we are not inhuman
though we may mock them
and use our long words;
in truth we take humanity
(the strength of sibling to sibling)
to be the heat and source of joy.
We find joy in revolution,
in the placing of the joy of things
in the centre.
The banality of joy of the courts,
of the commercial laboratory
is of no interest to us.
We are angels
who watch the wreckage of history,
tears in our eyes;
but we smile, because we have hope.
Behind us stretches the future of work
(the varied plane of opportunity)
where for a brief moment
we will siblize each other
and lose the property of our minds,
giving it to all.
We work by each other – for each other.
And from the past of each other.
This is historical materialism.