We live in the present and the finite. In our finite ways, even our fires burn a finite blaze within finite days. And to such fine heights with hips and hoorays do we raise the unworthy and unduly praised.
This, is my battle cry.
Let my trumpet be the call to arms you hear with the ears of your soul. Let the beating of my brother's war drums get entrenched in your veins and ensnare the rhythm of your being 'til it is one with the beating of your heart.
Hear our voices - belabored with the subtle roar of our unborn.
For they will be stronger.
Through us, they will know real strength.
They will skip rocks with mountains, quake the earth with their steps, and feed forests with their breath.
Tonight we are the dead. Tonight we are the living. Tonight we are those yet to come.
We are the infinite.
We are the channels through which generations course. Our words fell from our father's tongues, caught wind through our gnashing lips, and will float on in the songs of our children. Our bodies, rented space for our mother's life force which we poisoned as it flowed through her capillaries - the same to which we once gave tribute at her tributaries.
Our all is at stake.
We are one tempest away from shaking spears to will our points across.
Pitied be the progeny for they shall inherit the earth.
We can do better.
Let us band in throngs and stand strong against the legions formed like lesions stretched and blotched across sweet Gaia's back. We follow her in her waltz with the sun - our revolutions in tandem. We will draw the battle lines across the edge of their existence, their backs to the aether and accept nothing less than retreat.
With our flambeaux held high in the night sky they will see we are made up of love and fire and one metric ton of ire pulsing at and receding from eternity with an engine of a human heart fighting for a way out of its stifling cavity. Our engines thump and churn, thump and churn til they combust internally, igniting a fire inside and reducing our lungs to cinders.
Our cells, again the burning dust of suns.
As we sing our war songs, our mouths will leak napalm onto the land, scorching the earth we tread to grow anew. The words, they float like embers from our dragon tongues branding the sky, the earth, and all they touch - infinite.
We, are the infinite.