What is this hole through which the hope of the world is running out?
It is the spear-wound in the belly of a dragon sliced in half to make heaven and deep, quartered and scattered to the four winds, watchtowers established in each quarter to hold back her blood.
It is the sword-wound in the breast of a giant whose skull is the sky, whose bones are the mountains, whose flesh is the earth, whose blood was drained to make the sea around the earth.
It is the knife-wound in the groin of the Fisher King waiting bleeding in his boat on the translucent lake, no longer king, god, land, sky, sea, something bigger, awash in his rising blood.
Is this our chance to unhero ourselves, put down spears, swords, knifes, divisions? To staunch the wound with healing herbs and charms? To look into the eyes of the many-headed numinous and bend our heads in reverence together singing new songs?
Or will we die battling amongst ourselves, augmenting the divisions, cutting deeper wounds until all the hope has run out through the hole, all the blood, the last words on the final breath?