I wonder at the end of the world.
Not the death of machines and proteins—
the one in the centre, stubbornly furled,
that one which justifies our means.
If we’re to cave in towards violence,
silenced, save for a muted dripping beat,
blinded by our bare faced impotence,
why’re childhood bruises kissed in deceit?
If we’re to survive waves of empires
driven to destruction by beauty,
finding warmth in towering pyres,
then why we still love is clear to me.
I’ve found the end of the world, wandering
through the tide pools that judged us deserving.
Recommendation: Conclave (2024) dir. Edward Berger.