This is not the dust of brown and shards of life,
Reduced fragments of existence- letters, bubblegum wrappers;
Tears and bird feathers.
The dust shines- shines down from other worlds into the altheiometer of Pullman’s novels.
Dust that circles our footsteps day in and day out of so many classes and so many hours.
Fragments of existence and sand and coloured stones, sea shells and echoes of temple bells.
This dust is me. And you and us.
It settles on my shoulders on calm quiet nights and speaks of spectres and daemons-
This dust mingles in my blood and spikes my tears to salty droplets.
The red dust; of votes and elections and false ballots;
Of politics and sociology and Korean studies.
This dust is them.
And those there were and are yet to be.
A dust of dreams and passions and empty words.
This dust is everything we want to be.
Then the skies darkened over our little intellectual heads and colourful umbrellas opened up.
But the dust rose from our prayers and term papers and diary pages.
Circled the souls of new little puppies and left over colour from yesterday.
It slipped out through their fingers and through our skins.
The dust settled in thought puddles.
The dust flew with emotions to every lover in every tree shadow.
Who knew our existence was trailing away?
And the lives ran unending races and sweated dust in plenitude that soiled the paper money and fuelled our banks.
The dust rose and fell like a sleeping child’s breath and the echo of church bells.
The storm raved the rocks, raped the trees and took the dust.
The dust and the storm of a thousand hungry years of tearful revolutions and misplaced thoughts.
The storm was them and the dust everything we could be.
Have you ever wondered why you still feel
Empty?