Beyond Far Hills
© Surazeus
2016 03 01
All past events that happened in this world
in our eternal struggle to survive
glow static inside seashell of my skull
like warm sun gleaming through forgetful trees
in undulating beams of silent words
that weave soul-piercing threads of hopeful dreams
dreamed by every person who ever lived
through spinning labyrinth of shared memories.
Raindrops from another passing dark storm
thrum against frail window of dimming eyes
in obsessive music of numb despair
which sends messages through telegraph code
unheard across vast stretch of roadless plains
where time uncoils springs of my restless walk
ever forward west from brutal attacks
in search for paradise beyond far hills.
Yet another cycle of social turmoil
swirls like mad storm waves against secure shore
when people gathered in public squares shout
with thunderous roar to express world view
that slams opposition in clanging debate
as angry hands grip hammer of commerce
to forge bold empire of surrounding walls
and crush skulls of dreamers into mute mud.
Since my father first taught me how to bend
wood of sturdy trees into rolling wheels,
and harness wind-flying horse with tight reins
of discipline to enforce rule of law,
I lead my clan westward beyond far hills
to follow gleaming sun around huge world
while leaving bones of my fathers in fields
where my children sprout among blooming flowers.
Nothing I dream translates to polished tablet
while all my words, that generate clear vision
modeling this world of ever-changing forms,
blow away in howling wind of blind rage
that scatters pages of my books on wings
of aching despair which cuts my pear heart
with blade I sharpened on old vision stone
which I give to you at hour of my death.
When you all sat in ring around bright fire
under guiding stars to express your choice
that I lead our wagon train at sunrise
on ancient quest for truth beyond far hills
I accepted scepter my father forged
from river of fire, and promise to raise
shining gem of wisdom high overhead
and beam eye of light on way of salvation.
Driven away from our homes by cruel men
who proclaimed, if you are not with us you
are against us, we escaped by moonlight
clamping chains of their greed, and sailed in boat
of cynical hope to island of mist
where ancient woman with vine-tangled hair
offered us refreshing cow milk to drink,
even after traveling beyond far hills.
As I look backward over faded roads,
my fathers and mothers traveled in search
for secure paradise beyond far hills,
I see their faces in shadows of rain
watching me with eyes forged from fire of stars
when they constructed towers of steel and glass
that gleam now on farms where my fathers tilled
fruit trees and nourishing herbs by clear streams.
Every bridge they built over gushing rivers
collapsed in wind storms of galloping pride
and left me stranded and severed from play
of their assertive lives, and so, alone
under sprawling oak tree where they first sang
colorful thoughts into clear streaming words,
I carve all their names and deeds of desire
for life on Tablet of Tales before death.
I now know why we left old broken walls
and gardens overgrown with vines and weeds
to wander signless roads in blasting winds
beyond far hills where gangs of angry men
wait to enslave us with laws of dead gods,
but wherever we stop on endless road
we erect new walls of arrogant stone
to protect our children from falling apples.
© Surazeus
2016 03 01
All past events that happened in this world
in our eternal struggle to survive
glow static inside seashell of my skull
like warm sun gleaming through forgetful trees
in undulating beams of silent words
that weave soul-piercing threads of hopeful dreams
dreamed by every person who ever lived
through spinning labyrinth of shared memories.
Raindrops from another passing dark storm
thrum against frail window of dimming eyes
in obsessive music of numb despair
which sends messages through telegraph code
unheard across vast stretch of roadless plains
where time uncoils springs of my restless walk
ever forward west from brutal attacks
in search for paradise beyond far hills.
Yet another cycle of social turmoil
swirls like mad storm waves against secure shore
when people gathered in public squares shout
with thunderous roar to express world view
that slams opposition in clanging debate
as angry hands grip hammer of commerce
to forge bold empire of surrounding walls
and crush skulls of dreamers into mute mud.
Since my father first taught me how to bend
wood of sturdy trees into rolling wheels,
and harness wind-flying horse with tight reins
of discipline to enforce rule of law,
I lead my clan westward beyond far hills
to follow gleaming sun around huge world
while leaving bones of my fathers in fields
where my children sprout among blooming flowers.
Nothing I dream translates to polished tablet
while all my words, that generate clear vision
modeling this world of ever-changing forms,
blow away in howling wind of blind rage
that scatters pages of my books on wings
of aching despair which cuts my pear heart
with blade I sharpened on old vision stone
which I give to you at hour of my death.
When you all sat in ring around bright fire
under guiding stars to express your choice
that I lead our wagon train at sunrise
on ancient quest for truth beyond far hills
I accepted scepter my father forged
from river of fire, and promise to raise
shining gem of wisdom high overhead
and beam eye of light on way of salvation.
Driven away from our homes by cruel men
who proclaimed, if you are not with us you
are against us, we escaped by moonlight
clamping chains of their greed, and sailed in boat
of cynical hope to island of mist
where ancient woman with vine-tangled hair
offered us refreshing cow milk to drink,
even after traveling beyond far hills.
As I look backward over faded roads,
my fathers and mothers traveled in search
for secure paradise beyond far hills,
I see their faces in shadows of rain
watching me with eyes forged from fire of stars
when they constructed towers of steel and glass
that gleam now on farms where my fathers tilled
fruit trees and nourishing herbs by clear streams.
Every bridge they built over gushing rivers
collapsed in wind storms of galloping pride
and left me stranded and severed from play
of their assertive lives, and so, alone
under sprawling oak tree where they first sang
colorful thoughts into clear streaming words,
I carve all their names and deeds of desire
for life on Tablet of Tales before death.
I now know why we left old broken walls
and gardens overgrown with vines and weeds
to wander signless roads in blasting winds
beyond far hills where gangs of angry men
wait to enslave us with laws of dead gods,
but wherever we stop on endless road
we erect new walls of arrogant stone
to protect our children from falling apples.
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