When you’re walking through the city streets.

All the smiles point out to different roots.

The way they pray,

They wear, they sing, they behave.

All their seeds are grown in trees far away.

As the birds came here and left them to nourish.

For centuries, for thousands of years.

What it is, is what it was, what it used to be.

What it is is what makes us a part of the whole.

Sometimes folks decide things that don’t relate

To us, to our perspectives, to our senses.

How can we become whole

as a part of the whole,

knowing we’re holes

in this huge human galaxy?

The water runs out of the sink.

And as the climate gets warmer for different reasons,

So does the water within us ever new season.

The fluids that orientate us in our constant process

Of drinking, breathing, drinking, breathing.

What the folk is, has been, and might be.

It makes pure sense as of now.

However, for future societies and historians

It might have been nothing but only a brief period

Of humankind, kind of human, a few humans of a kind.

With all the salams, hallelujahs, and mantras that inhabit

The vast lands of this enormous mass of land

Within ourselves-

That looks like nothing in the vastness of

The vacuum in the space.

We, they, are the people who choose or not.

To be, to think, to understand,

To process, to feel, to live.

The folks who imprison one another into a life of pure existence

Instead of a human diversity of thoughts and essences.

Suddenly, I’m consumed by the vacuum.

But when it comes, it returns.

When it hits, it goes away.

When it sticks, it is removed.

When it screams, it silences.

Suddenly, the vacuum within me and my folks become

Pure air and that’s why we can’t find it everywhere.

With our air, with ourselves

Lost in the multitude

But found in each one of the few of us.

Y*

Why do we reflect
Before our thoughts
Become thinking-in-action?

Y connects us and separates us.

Questioning the components of our genes.

And the materials of our brains.

Full of cells linking with each other in

A neural network of thoughts, wishes, and passions.

That connects every folk to a bigger reality

Of Folkykultűr.

The sectarianism divides our folks into small pieces

Of a global unfinished patchwork

Where the voice of us dictates our limits

Where the folks in court become courtless

Screaming and shouting words

Out of nowhere.

While our voices are left unspoken

Without a reason, as if we were hysteric.

The tragedy of the globes,

The collapse of the union,

The fall of the earthen empires

Full of sand and stone.

That contaminates our brains.

While we try to survive with our folks

In our own folklands.

Somewhere beyond the green fields,

We’ve found shelter in the highest mountains.

In the farthest islands.

We, who are a part of the kultur.

We cultivate the art of living.

Without having to live for the patchwork.

We sew our own way.

kultűr*

folk*