Martyrdom

The martyr does not die. He lives to create more like him.The conscience lives behind an anonymous windowIn tangletown. It is difficult to find the right one.You call and call and there is no answer. But neverA busy signal. The martyrs climb one sideOf a mountain and descend the other. It is a worldFull of dangers, hidden crevasses, avalanches,And so overwhelmingly beautiful they sometimesWish they could die right there. They endureHardship and posthumous fameWith its bitter aftertaste, the feeling of lookingAlmost into infinity, which leaves them giddy,As if drunk. They carry miles of rope for their descents.So many martyrs. So much rope. So muchClimbing and descending. Though very hard, their workGoes on. The conscience, meanwhile, cooks an egg.It brushes water on a hard crust and fries it in a skillet, Making it chewable. It may go to market later today, but then again it may wait until tomorrow.