This is a time of stories – of the history that is to present itself again in such a ridiculous dress; hip-hopping, tangoing, belly-dancing. We are to take our headphones off for a while and to really just listen to the silence and the noise of our existence through the stories of the Prophets – of the ones who warned and the ones who made their way out of a split sea, a whale, an arc, a cross. Of the Aztecs and the Mayan people who were astonished just as the people of the Indus Valley Civilisation by a hot wind and a crackling earth quake. The Earth, of course, of course, with the elephants that we have slaughtered and the dolphins we have killed. Of the bombs that we have dropped like lime scented bubbles pouring out of a running bath onto Yemen, onto Syria and Iraq, and especially Afghanistan for decades and decades – like a Beatles cassette still playing in Liverpool.

And now, here we are, all of the world meeting at the old central park somewhere where it is suitable to meet. Not on the islands where the honeymooners went once upon a Cinderella time but somewhere East or West. Who can say? It is a grand dinner with cold pebbles to be served; pebbles that depict our behaviour all these years and all of us are still talking about how we all shared – ALL OF US – a juicy meal in the winter of 2019 in the old market of Wuhan. And then, some of us with short hair and with red flags in our hands like those on shrines will say, were we not told of Karma? Were we not told that we are but one flesh under one sky and under one land before that winter of 2019? Remember how we talked of global warming. Of Youtube. Of those funny videos that we shared. Remember how we all ate a Happy Meal – Burger, Fries, Coke all in the same box with the same toy.

Remember – did we all not have one meal in Wuhan? Did we all not suffer together? Did we not? And now, some of us have come together and some of us still continue to defy the signs of our Gods. Gods that are willing to sacrifice everything while wearing white robes and a face mask. They have gloves on to give us the magic touch so that we can heal. If not, this we will all be in our bloodless white bones, mixed with soil. With no bodies or skin, packed in once clean white cotton cloths and now, nothing, nothing but a thought, a reminder of who we are to be; pure, speckles of dust.