O land, hang down your tousled head and cry.
The wind is changing, rumpling your trees,
a careless gesture of goodbye. The rain is gone.
The god we worship is a restless god, and we
were never meant to stay the same, the grass
was never made to last. Becoming is our only state.
Look down upon your molten core,
the sea bed born and reabsorbed,
look up and watch the constellations fly
as stars agglomerate and swell and die.
Why were we made to long to stay the same,
to feel the changing of the universe as pain?
O Land, Hang Down Your Tousled Head
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Critica is an inclusive and transdisciplinary publishing platform that focuses on offering a reflective and aesthetic space to consider social and cultural issues through a psychoanalytic and creative lens. It is also a forum for ideas at the intersection of psychoanalysis, creativity, philosophy, and the social sciences.
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