Inspired by: “Modul 38_17”, Nik Bärtsch’s Ronin, STOA (2006)
38_01 | The ki |気| Of life flows | Faster | Through our quicksilver | Gradient hands;
38_02 | I’ve watched as our | So-called | Immortals | Have proved mortal,
38_03 | Subject to decay | And dispersal | As the | Chasms | Gaping before us
38_04 | Close and crumble, | Return and rise | As flocks | Of blackened birds;
38_05 | As swarms of hollow locust; | As troupes of dance-spiraling bees; | As thunder-peal
38_06 | And staccato rumble. | You once said | “We are the ancients, | Returned to ourselves,
38_07 | Spanning centuries | In beautiful silence | Serene at granite’s | Edge | And Eden’s
38_08 | Subductive flows; | Returned to our quantum | Chemical gardens, | Infused in nectars
38_09 | Of dry spice and | Bruised, eloquent poppies. | Reborn.” | But I’ve watched | (As we sink
38_10 | Beneath the quiet seal | Of the ocean’s still surfaces, | In thrall to warped, entropic forces)
38_11 | Us speak | Only of extinction; | Of swamp gardens | And the thousand faces | Of dark orchids
38_12 | That smell of our own flesh | And sour, briny sweat; | Of muddy fountains | River-running
38_13 | Through broken, | Bone-tiled courtyards, | Surrounding the fractured | Dry-rot branches
38_14 | Of trees | (Haunted | By the wind’s madness), | That span upward to the sharp | Slivers
38_15 | Of nearly-infinite | Transparent blue; | Unaware that we wander | From the center,
38_16 | Lost yet found, | Lodged, like stray bullets | Or wave-particle shrapnel, | Deep in the final chamber
38_17 | Of the nautilus spiral | φ
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Ryu Ando writes speculative fiction and poetry. He lives and works in Los Angeles. Inspiration for a lot of his work strike while sitting in long meetings, an occupational hazard. His work has appeared in speculative fiction magazines such as Strange Horizons, Unbroken, Liquid Imagination, and more.