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And who will be there for you, dear child?
When you face that immense darkness, As a maiden, a quiet object of the house, When it encloses your mind and taunts at your being, You are nobody. You laugh. You have to laugh. You must. Even when your sky has cracked open and the Stars have fallen, and the tides have arisen and The earth has quaked. Because no one will. Except you. So you count, A small partial of here and there, From the woman who would have loved you so, And a bit of this and that, By making use of your little labour. For there can be no force when Here and now is not permitted. He has too often forgotten That the woman of his past life, was the same person whom you’d call a mother, That the woman of his present life, Is not a part of that property at his command, That her fortune once were also a share of promise for your own future. She said she would thank him Of his care and his love of the house While out of love for her you trap yourself in his uneven temper Watch him play the tragic hero Dismiss and neglect your words and Replace your needs with more materials that enclose his sense of time Once, twice, thrice, and more Forty times a quarter a day And more, praying and asking Where has she gone? Once, twice, thrice and more Thirty days a month of the year Everything must be kept As the way she has left it As the way time does not move still. Or else I will not sleep. No. No. I do not permit change. What is love but an empty trace of that honored life of your past? You linger on youth and miss the Years of growth,You cling on her as if she would bring back The time that is no longer here. Words, words, words, So much words of these men who Think my neglect is out of misunderstanding of that pain As if I do not feel that same loss of losing not one, But two. As I look into the eyes of Darkness As Darkness looks into the eyes of mine. Pray tell, Who will be there for you? And for years they will call you
Icarus, the reckless boy who flied too high who reached the sun and plunged into his death. And no one knew that your destination never was the next shore And your flight never was from the high maze They would never know that The glamour of the spheres have Taught you the secrets of their songs To reach too high is far better than to fall into the ways of the man who plows the land and knows not the end Your story will be told as a tale for the Children to obey the rules and You will be mocked at, forgotten, and left alone Only because you are too young to Speak in your own words and have left too soon To defend for your own dreams Unlike your father who sang his mind so well that his passion and judgement sent his curiosity into the maze of his own grave His mind is remembered such that little pueri will have to learn from his intelligence— the man who acted Yet Icarus, Icarus, the boy who fell are’t the lights in the ocean singing The same song of the falling spheres Churning, swirling, in the embrace of your sun 1.
“What is a choice?” “A choice is the path where a man takes full responsibility for himself.” “Is it a choice that the man makes, or is it a choice that is not a choice?” “Life comes from both sides.” “And the gods called it our gift.” “Time made men, and yet men made us their gods.” 2. After grey-eyed Athena left the lonely shores of Ithaca, Odysseus sat, eyes peering into the far horizon, thinking. He recalled the immortal goddess on her lonely shores. Now too with the flow of time he must endure the loneliness. What a great sunset, he thought. Once, when his comrades left him one by one, he had seen a sunset as lonely as this before. Once he was young and strong and powerful, and the world was kinder. His idle life was filled with the familiar faces whom he loved, whom have loved him more than their own lives. And then one thousand ships called him onto his mission. A part of him longed to be with his beloved, yet a part of him longed to travel, to live a life bigger than his own, to sail across the seven seas and to drift his youth amongst the forgotten river before Hades made him his reign. So he left, when no disguise would change the mind of the raging Athenians, when nothing could be done to change the tide, his job was to be the hero. And then… what then? Every day it was the life of excitement. Yes, no doubt that there was danger, but he was not kind enough to let them down—he was resourceful, him, the only Odysseus whom the world knows him of his cunningness. He sang with the stars and bargained with the gods. No one would question him, because he was the Odysseus on his famous journey. He knew, however, and only him alone, knew the dangers of the sea. 3. On the ocean, there can be no doubt. It is not a game, where one takes care of you when you are down. It is not a test, when chances are given repeatedly until you performed to your heart content. It is not melancholic, where in between the being and the not-being, you are honored of your thoughts. It is the time for reaction, and only reaction itself is the prove of your worth. You do not aim towards the end, because death takes all ends. You suffer for the journey, but the journey itself is the most fruitful. That is, if you are brave enough to walk through it with your widened eyes. Blind Tiresias saw, through his deceptive figures of the light and the darkness, and his knowledge of languages through the gift of the gods. And yet he never left his own being, as his gods-given presence are flawed to journey into the earthly affairs. Take his advice but walk on your own. It is the traveler that takes his aim. 4. His men left him and he alone, chose to return. Giving up his immortality, giving up his sky, only chose to be back. To see his only worth among the seven seas. The place where he grew up from, the place where he lived, the place where he is familiar with, his home. And yes, it is a torture. All the mistakes come back to you when, in the time being, sitting alone on the shores of Ithaca, you would wish you were everywhere else but here. Being king, and then being doubted as king. Being needed, and then being hated as needed. Being kind, and then regret everything you do while kind. React, and then being reminded that there is no need to react. They believe you are proud, because they know nothing that tames your mind. They want you here, so that they do not need you. Like a school of sly fish they honor you with their rules, so that your mind distorts their idleness so easily that you imagine them chaining you up in the name of home. Vacation is over— he whispered to himself. The peacefulness sets him on fire, that depressing psychopath hiding under his archaic smile. It is not the smile of that responsible Athena. Under the nine rings of hell only he would notice the immense sadness of the bloodless Achilles. His reign means nothing in the world of the dead; that famous rageful Achilles who set Troy in fire too, sought no escape in the realms of peace. 5. The wild torrent of the ocean calls him. It does not call. Not always. People call him a madman. That is because they do not see what he can see. The world is beyond acknowledgement, with one decision leading to another. For generations they will call him the adventurer, because he has the dare that no one does. Only by throwing himself into danger will he stop that raging fire in his mind. The question is, how? He looked into the sunset, where the sun set fire across the worlds. I need a ship. He thought, and he headed away from the city, deep, to find his worth in that shallowing woods. What is in the space
Between Here and Then Between the east and the west Between light and dark Between the mundane and the spiritual Between the material and the symbolic Between sense and thought Between sight and sound Between words and symbols Between moments and the eternal Between a language and the languages Between the story and the perceiver Between the form and the concept Between the skill and the creative Between learning and giving Between the reality and the imaginative Moments are seized Senses are discovered Is there something more Between truth-- Or truths What is in the space Rivers flood and forests grow
There’s a secret to be told One for sorrow, two for joy Bless the soul that takes the road Ash crawled up from bed. It was the seventh hour of the night. The magpies had left their forest, and so did the elves. She tiptoed her way through the bed and mattresses. She left the old building that had housed centuries of history. In the evening air she breathed in the stillness of the sky. It was a sky of deep storm clouds, beating with whirl winds and dazzling rain. The town of Arundel. She had never thought she’d see it in her own eyes. Yet now magic had become reality. She had passed the giants that guarded the door. She had spoken in their language in manners of eloquence and respect. She had met the trees that had guarded the knowledge of ancient growth. She continued on her journey, to the pastures green that quietly depicted the image of God, she met the folks, young and old, friend and foes, who directed her to this town of everything. Everything that was told, everything that was known. The rich and the poor lived one street along. Within the monuments, beside the ruins, the deconstructed alleys that glimmered the sorrow of the old-time’s pride. It was the sight of the town that was centuries old, centre of the world and linked to them all, in time, in terra. She had made herself a little home. In the alley of travellers. She made her own bed, prepared her own meal. She worked, and worked, and worked some more. It was not very different from the reality that had now become magical. She wondered how she should connect herself to the town that was the centre of all worlds, in reality, in somniis. “It had been a long journey.” “And it shall be longer.” She recalled the first day leaving the past behind. The faces now are leaving her sea of memory. “Take care.” They had said. And they left her among the oceans, seeking for the lost treasures that had once belonged to her birth. It took her a while to learn the old-class manners. To drink when appropriate, sit when appropriate, look when appropriate, and smile. Always smile. Smile until neither you nor the stranger questions its authenticity. And then learn their language. Speak. “Drink.” “To the journey.” “To home.” “To the stars.” “Aye. To the stars.” She recalled the old tune she had learned, once upon a time in her old memories of the place that she had been too familiar with. Where the summer breeze caressed the land of green. In each year of dullness she had been only exceptionally excited about the magpies that had arrived from the faraway lands, with their deep eyes and elegant speech they inherited the soul of the night and possess outstanding knowledge of the wider unknown. The magpies rest their wings on the tall walls of the buildings, and looked into the eyes of the locals, as the locals looked back at them, as she looked at them, eager to understand their stories. Like a child she rose with the moon, cleverly learned their symbols of speech, mimicked their manners and joyously performed for their rituals. She recalled the oceans and the lands in their tales, of the heroes and the giants, of the darkness and of the light, of the past and of the present. She recalled being amazed about the idea of multiple worlds that surrounded the mundane, about the running songs that poured from the skies, about the gods who shared their death with men and traveled among the seven seas. And then she was here, within the walls of that ancient town, where the songs were sung and the rituals were made, she had seen it rise, and now it was time for the fall. The walls would shatter and sooner or later she must make a decision. At the hour of dawn she must take action, or the action takes her. She looked at her own shadow, long, thin, and dim, it merged into the darkened carpets of the corridor. She had been familiar with the shadow, once. A leaf left a branch with the autumn breeze. Twirled, and turned, it painted the air with a stroke of bright yellow. Soft and gentle it met the shade, and left her sight through the window frame. She trimmed her hair and made it into a bun. Crawling up onto the windowsill she glanced at her own shadow, now deformed and trapped within the frame, like a bird, sensitive and quiet, the bird she had been too familiar with. One for sorrow, two for joy. She whispered. And then she leapt into thin air. 1.
“You must leave now.” “For what reason?” “Because a true sculptor does not seek to ask— you do not prove, you do.” “How can one ‘do’ when he cannot discern right from wrong?” “One day, you will understand that before the imagery of death, nothing else matters except the gift you stole from Him when you ascended into the world of the mundane— Dust to dust, and earth to earth.” “Clay to clay.” 2. How should I know, then? Magister? It was a cool Monday morning. The Rest had passed, and the cycle returned to its beginning once again. The young man lay on the round wooden platform, covered with late evening dust. Misty air sparkled with the flowing miracles of life and death. Ivy vines, sage roots, and parsley leaves surrounded him. Songs that are sung passed through the platform of cycles, revolving around the bright-eyed young apprentice. He stared into the glittering dust, as if trying to capture the moments where gaps opened in the barrier between life and death. To the gentle one, that was the most precious moment. A businessman ran through the buildings, from tall sunlit walls to low, darkened alleys. He had received ill news from the hospital—his lover had departed shortly before. An old woman slept beside the winding streets. The autumn breeze blew over her pale, wrinkled face; the eyelids that had seen too much of the world were half-closed, resting from its hustle and bustle. A young girl sat in an armchair, surrounded by her family and friends. Despite their warmth, she endured her pain alone. Facing death, all men are one. Twisting and turning, the shadows grasped each element of fulfillment and then returned to silence. Little by little, the clatter faded, and his own voice had grown more vivid and lively than it should have been since he left the house of his magister. He wondered how long it had been since he entered the world of the mundane. 3. He had made himself a sculptor, and in a forest, he lay. From where he had started, from where he would end his journey. He recalled a myth he had once heard from a wise man, with whom he had traveled briefly. Never had he seen the man since, but the story stayed in his memory. It was a silent night where campfires warmed the two lonely travelers. With his guitar, the man sang to himself and his companion: Before the days when men were born Before the years when gods were formed Creation called, from life to death Seven days did He make the world. With works unseen and wisdom known Waves of change met the stars. Dust to dust, and earth to earth, Cycles turn, and the platform runs. Music flows with songs unsung; The wind blows as words begin. Sculpted by form and left with soul, Set free to know the wider unknown. Love and hate, lies and truths, Satisfactions, and the most despair. Meeting death, he thanks his work, Unjudged and gentle, he removes their soul. Dust to dust, and earth to earth, The wind returns, and clay to clay. Music flows with songs unsung; The wind blows as words begin. 4. It is said that before death, a person of omnipotence and omniscience appears. The glory of this figure charms and humbles the mortal who is about to return to the wind. Every man has his own breath. Every man has his own story. But the moment before the last breath reminds him of the days that mattered most, of the moments that truly counted. The bright-eyed apprentice looked into the dust. He saw the Gentle One before his eyes, in glory and kindness, as he had remembered, before life and during life. The day of his banishment appeared before his eyes. And when it was time for him to answer-- “Right is wrong, and wrong is right; humans outrun humans, and life outruns life. It is a matter of change, and nothing is certain, whether right or wrong.” “How should you know the answer, then?” the Gentle One asked. Lying on the platform, the bright-eyed apprentice reached out his arm toward his magister. Along the way, he had met a girl—a girl he had loved dearly. He made a family and a home. He had seen the oceans and the mountains, sung with friends, and wept alone. He had traveled to foreign lands. He touched the precious smiles. He had met the cycle of seasons and learned the secrets of the stars. Though anger arose and despair blinded him from time to time, it was a life fine enough to have pleased him. Facing death, all men are one. With a tear of joy, he smiled at the kind old man, touched his hand, and embraced his form. 5. “Thank you,” he heard the Gentle One say. Returning to the house of his magister, he looked at the form of the Gentle One breathing His breath out into the breeze. With care, he placed his hands on the new clay and began to work. One by one, he reformed the bodies into the lives he remembered them to be, adding some color and leaving out some details. Without calculating the cycle of the stars, from morning to evening, he worked, and the circulating stars began their hymn. On the seventh day, he looked into his own clay. It looked back at him. With a smile, he let go. Dust to dust, and earth to earth, The wind returns, and clay to clay. Music flows with songs unsung The wind blows as words begin. 1. “How is it fair that, to learn the unspeakable, I must sacrifice my own voice?” “In order to know the unknown, you must pay your debt.” “What does it matter if I am deprived of my words? Nothing is right, and nothing is wrong. If knowing changes nothing, why seek knowledge at all?” "Like a river does it creep, like a river does it flow. Years would pass and people change, but the true beauty of a prophecy never fades." 2.
Down away from the faraway mountains, where myths have faltered and ancient islands are long forgotten, Cassandra lives in the house of that ancient sun-god. Banished and unhappy, she lingers among the long abandoned. Each morning she wakes in the house where his followers received all his love—save for her. As the prime servant of the temple, she tends to the house. When the song of the nightingale falters, she rises with the sun. In the pouring sunlight, she cleanses the room, little by little refilling the well. Looking up from her early work, she reads the sun and continues her routine: first, the dust among the altars, then a meal for the worshippers. When the glamorous carriage rises from the mountains, she sits and waits for the words. Songs are sung, life flows—ah, the beauty she has never known. With mellow sunlight, they pour in, little by little entering her heart. Anger, despair, power, and wars—all the chaos she hears. Death takes life, and life outruns death. Fathers devour heirs, and children murder their spouses. Those who see do not know, those who know do not speak, and those who speak do not see. 3. Sitting beside the empty amphora, she remembers Hestia: how the sands of life had left her, and how she was forgotten by the gods. She has never understood why the fair-haired goddess gave up her immortal life for the love of the hearth. Lifting her white-dyed skirt, Cassandra cleanses the empty amphora at a nearby river. Clear water flows over shallow grass; a swallow glides down and leaves her a gift—a small leaf of forget-me-not. She holds the petals in her hand, lifts her fair, long arms, and places it beside her pearl-like ear. Amid it all, Cassandra listens—hearing cries and sorrow. The silent meadow embraces them all. With gentle care, it sways with the breeze, cradling lives and cleansing her soul. How does it care? Silent and still as it always is, bringing comfort to all who linger. Cassandra, Cassandra, you are still young. Take the hearth and feel the pain; learn the silence of the house. Cassandra smiles and raises her eyes. Years have passed, and the stars have fallen. Nothing matters but the words of life. Raising her cupped palms, little by little the sand returns. Like a river does it creep, like a river does it flow. Years would pass and people change, but the true beauty of a prophecy never fades. |
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