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I am dust on the shredded sunworn curtain in the wrecked house in the wilderness where settlers once lived.

I am dust on the reed of the organ that the inner mission lutherans once used.

I am dust in the hair of the back of the donkey that went through the gate of which only hair and skeleton remain.

I am dust of the dust of the long forgotten people.

I am dust of the mountain turned to stone turned to dust
blowing restless through cities erected, lived in, deserted, turned into dust.

I am dust of the voices that cried out in pain and joy and love.

I am dust of the books that Your forefathers and -mothers read
and of those they didn't read, which noone knows where they are now.

I am dust behind the jeep that rushed through the hot desert
"I ain't gonna stand for it" sung by Stevie Wonder in the speakers.

I am dust of weary memories howling almoast completely without mouth.

I am dust that You see on the expense of seeing love.

I am dust on the lense turning summer photograph to memories
of golden beauty.

I am dust of stupidity blowing into the ears and the brains of people,
seemingly endless endless stupidity stupidly blowing around the world
smudging good things that could be.

(in the work, written right into the screen ( no paper)).

The last verse doesnt work Vilmos.
Unless , of course, you are edging towards cynicism.

I don't know.

Thanks for reply.
maybe.

I disagree, I really liked this thing, as I read it I envisioned the text put into a song, rather a way to arrange it that with good riffs and the odd guitarsolo would be great.
Good stuff, man!