And I enlist the help of a heathen


Walking through town I breath a suffering air
Full of the poisoned dust of the iron age
And if everyone is living so well
It's because of the things he makes to sell
One bends to pray for a swift remedy
For the learned gentleman's lonely heart
And to know again the meaning of his art 

I talk believing in my own goodness
I had this idea about heaven, a club
Of people like me and my smiling clone
Gathering like dogs to the single bone
Until I ask the humble sinner man
To say at once what deeds I should repent
And how to ignore the cunning serpent

Who made the firm red apple go so soft
And will the northern ice caps really melt?
The will to make easy profits decides
To choke the life where the fruit fly resides
Draining everything, the good with the bad
I draw plans for the Garden of Eden,
And I enlist the help of a heathen

To find where it is hidden in the brain
And to learn how a holy place is made
He says it is there next to the memory
The part that looks a bit like chicory
But he says the connecting paths are closed
The mind cannot figure its outline forms
He thinks he is opening a can of worms

How can one untap the channels? I ask
One needs to measure the contours, I say
Of its roaming grounds and even boundaries
And fix the rusty gates at the foundrys
Confess! Man, he says, and follow orders
Free the mind from rules and dealing favours
Make a better map of what one savours

Rome, 26 1 2007