as if we suffered periods of amnesia, this is, conceivably, our fate:
once we ex-angels or –cherubs take a holiday on verdous world,
we lose the memory of our transmundane home, we lose our wings.
only faith petering out in our hearts is left answering or leaving
out the conundrums of life: fields of lush grass subtly become
carpets of golden grains as the spheroid of light slips down into the ocean
or mountain or horizon and half the world is plunged into the night.
take flopping petals and misleading propitious buds, our minds
are stalled by our leaflike lives—
falling home. according to the theory basal- information-
before-leaving-earth though, by receiving the holy grail, we would
be able to return to our flock, and, passing it over,
it would take us to a place we'd grope and take flight in vain
from piercing darkness—and, i.e., sans relief, sanguinity, and end.
we have to hold fast to it first before making any grievance, thus.
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