Title: Be Sure,
Your Sins Will Find You Out
Filmmaker: Finn
Harvor
Poet: Finn Harvor
Runtime: 4:51
Synopsis: As the
snow becomes more fragile on the ground, so our jets monitor the
change in planetary rhythms.
Statement: This
originally appeared as an illustrated poem in a graphic fiction
magazine called Mind Theatre (the drawing of the “be sure”
preacher is from that original publication). I've since reworked the
piece, and also translated it into French (with the help of Google
translate and my own imperfect skills).
Be Sure, Your Sins Will Find You Out
In the morning, the snow is there
It rests on the ground, cold and
fragile.
But as day passes,
The
wind gently blows with the sound of cars
And
the snow disappears.
The
world of nature
Is
always the same
But
always different;
It's
the human factory that does this.
It's
something
Similar
to the machinery of evolution.
Therefore,
Be
sure
Your
sins
Will
find you out....
*
In amongst the carcinogens
of the Erie Canal
is the holy gill,
which coalesces with filaments of
asbestos.
Pollution bulges like
sick pink wedding cake
on the backs of belugas;
the plasticky discards of six-packs
choke the life out of young seals;
and dolphins asphyxiate
in the ghostly waverings of nylon
nets.
So – as the mosquitoes splatter
across a multitude of windshields –
do we.
It's murder, unintentional murder,
aborted from the vacuoles of our mind
and spun into outer space,
where we will flee, lifelessly,
the planet's disgrace.
*
Sois certain, vos péchés
vous retrouvèrent
Dans le matin, la neige est la
Elle se reste, calme et fragile.
Mais pendant la journée,
Le vent souffle doucement avec la bruit
des voitures
Et la neige se disparaît.
Le
monde de la nature
Et
toujours le même
Mais
toujours different;
C'est
le usine de l'humanité
que la fait.
C'est
quelque chose
Proche
d;une machine d'évolution.
Parmi les carcinogènes
du canal d'Erie
est la branchie sacrée,
qui se coalesce avec des filaments
d'amiante.
La pollution se gonfle comme
un gâteau de mariage rose et malade
sur le dos des bélugas;
les rejets de plastique de six-paquets
étouffent la vie des jeunes phoques;
Et les dauphins s'asphyxient
dans les oscillations fantomatiques des
filets en nylon.
Ainsi - comme les moustiques
éclaboussent à travers une multitude de pare-brise -
faisons nous.
C'est le meurtre, le meurtre
involontaire,
l'avorté des vacuoles de notre esprit
et tourné dans l'espace,
où nous fuirons, sans vie,
notre planète en disgrâce.
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