We live on the scraps of Eden. Life — a tragic miracle, an echo of a deeper symphony. The fruit is rationed. Water tastes like metal. Joy comes thin — a brittle leaf in winter wind. The trees are silent. The ground yields only to sweat. Behind us, the flaming sword still burns. There is no way back. Time does not reverse. So we go on — with spit, sweat, blood, semen, and shit. East of Eden, we make children. We make war. We make myths to cradle our ache. We bruise. We hunger.

He Will Return (Advent) He will not return to Eden. Not to clean mornings. Not to soil that never learned blood. The sword still burns. Time does not reverse. What was broken stays broken until it is healed. He will not return to innocence. There is no undoing of the long violence. No erasing of bodies used, lands stripped. He comes instead to flesh that remembers. To earth stamped flat by boots, by markets, by graves. He does not come to make things as they were. He comes th