Poem 2- House for Loneliness

There were no instructions and everything had a gleam in-between...
Even for the mind there was no concept,

nothing to break off from the rhythm of nature's self portrait.
There was no suffering of a thousand of years and the mountain were idiots with hands in the sky.
There were no rules of proportions and we were born in the middle of grey with no relationship with being and nonbeing...
We killed until ethics was an abstract form of tool...and the so called language built a house for loneliness.
This was long long ago...
When something came to dance and we were its feathers.