Poem

We speak of the Übermensch
as if we were the master beings,
the crown atop a story
we wrote ourselves.

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But what if the animals
understand more than we do,
and the birds carry answers
we never dared to ask?

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I imagine
an eagle reading air currents
like the score of deep listening
and the sky
not as a vague watercolor,
but as a pulsing canvas,
with the universe as its ear.

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I imagine
the nightingale’s song
spun like a thread,
woven
between tree and stars.

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Perhaps then
we might finally sing
a softer tone;

our image of the enemy
a relic from a fading age,
displayed in the museum of unworthiness—
among prayer stools, chains,
and swords,

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and the most terrible mushroom of all,
that should never have bloomed.