Monday, March 28, 2016

Dream Of Horse And Apples

Dream Of Horse And Apples
2016 03 28

These rotten apples, wilting globs of fear,
on broken table in dark empty room,
are not symbols of despair in my heart,
though I stare at them as I feel that way.

I hide mind-numbing angst of mournful dread
and soul-crippling ennui of bitter hope
that sears my heart with aching throb of rage
inside frail box of symbols I invent.

No rotten horse covered with buzzing bees
in foul muddy ditch of putrid rainwater
contains concept of my horror at life
because each day of hunger ends in death.

I feel so conscious and alive this hour,
trapped in this creaking half-broken meat shell,
beyond infinite measure of lifespan
because flame of my life will be snuffed blank.

How fleeting glows my conscious brain of lust
in vast timeless flow of galactic swirl
that I scream, my consciousness must survive
beyond birth and death of this body meat.

Then I laugh as I stand alone in rain,
staring at bright enormous towers of glass,
because I know my consciousness is sparked
by tangled spirals of neurons in my brain.

Though all these atoms that congeal wet meat
of my body were forged in furnace heat
of humongous exploding stars, my soul
sizzles awake within my brain alone.

I wish it were true, what I dreamed in words
while standing by small creek in midnight gloom,
that I am one small part of divine Mind
waking up in this virtual dreaming brain.

I walk through mist in dark Ravenna Park
in Seattle on winding road of dreams,
and stumble into Stonehenge ring where stands
oak-strong temple of glorious Fairy Queen.

Tall woman in embroidered robe of stars
caresses my cheek with thin ice-cold hand
and explains how she made me from her womb,
weaving starlight from seed-soul of my father.

She tells me I am her reborn in flesh
and I in turn will generate new life,
so we hold hands in giant ring of stones
and sing before crowd of people who hum.

I wake from reverie of this strange dream
in small stone temple of large cemetery
two thousand years later in my new body
and wonder if that dream was real or not.

I float again in dreams of ancient selves
to find myself young woman in tree grove,
picking apples as blossoms white and soft
stick to my hair and hands in misty rain.

From swirling mist at beating of my heart,
I see strange creature with long slender face
and shining black eyes step through flower bush,
and note its mane is tangled in tree limbs.

Stepping forward slow, cooing gentle tune,
I tug its mane from tangled limbs with care,
then offer apple as I pat its neck,
and feel love when its nose nudges my cheek.

Sweet gentle horse with flowing mane and tail
appears each day to nibble by my side,
and follows me along bright gushing stream
then trots around me on vast field of flowers.

When gang of men with spears and glaring eyes
appear one dawn from rugged mountain slope
and run toward me with eager grasping hands,
I slide on back of horse who gallops swift.

She races far away across broad plain
where thunder clouds spit blue lightning and rain,
then stops by lake that reflects gleaming stars
and nudges my cheek with her velvet nose.

I wake from reverie again and smile,
wondering if dream reveals how my ancestors
tamed horses and discovered apple fruit
ten thousand years ago in hills of Scythia.

Though we as individuals come and go,
our memories forge patterns in our brains
that render new brains in children we bear,
so we live forever though we each die.

Sunday, March 27, 2016

Holy Egg Of Ishtar

Holy Egg Of Ishtar
© Surazeus
2016 03 27

Forgotten angels on lone signless roads
who seek secret paradise of despair
stop at deep-flowing pond in misty wood
to sing sacred hymns of soul resurrection.

Hand trembling in cold wind of ceaseless hope,
old bearded man who leads lost colony
retrieves fresh eggs from serpent nests for feast
and watches thirty girls in rainbow dance.

Where are they now, young girls of Avalon
who sail in ships to distant lands of hope
and cook in kitchens of ten thousand towns
whose sons fight wars to found empire of wealth?

One voice remembers all their memories
she writes in fantasy novels to play
role of every ancestor she recalls
who ride horses on fruitful plains of love.

Who am I, she ponders just before dawn
while staring in smudged mirror of illusion,
and masks her face with new-invented name
to hide abuse when her drunk father howls.

I am not writhing on your cross of shame
for I escape each year from your contempt
and travel by coach to small western town
where I raise three children with faithful love.

On holiday of Easter resurrection
long ago we baked cakes for feast of love
to celebrate First Mother of all tribes
who generates new life from Holy Egg.

All wide-spread nations of this world were born
from Holy Egg of Ishtar, Divine Mother
who resurrects souls of fathers in children
and gives our tribe spirit eternal life.

Our nature festival of soul rebirth
was hijacked by priests of angry sky god
who demands we worship his son instead,
forgetting that Woman gives all souls life.

On fertile hill of apple trees, that bloom
in ring of stones, we rise and sing at dawn
when sun glows gold through swirling mist of time
and we make love to give our souls rebirth.

Children of our bodies gather in groups
and hunt in woods with baskets on their arms
to gather eggs and herbs and fruits and nuts
for mothers to prepare sweet feast of Spring.

Hold hands and dance in glowing ring of stones
when full moon gleams among life-giving stars
and celebrate First Mother of all nations
who bears Holy Egg of Life in her heart.

Thursday, March 24, 2016

Apple Pie Of Languid Faith

Apple Pie Of Languid Faith
2016 03 24

Huddled in long coat against blasting wind,
Albert strides city street to coffee shop,
thinking about story he wants to write
that describes angst of our industrial culture.
Then old gray-bearded man begging for change
grips his arm and peers deep into his eyes,
so he leans close to better hear his words
that hiss like whispers of a snake in grass.
"Though I seem to speak these entangled thoughts,
that slither through your brain like laughing snakes,
they flow not from my own self-enclosed mind
for I think my sponge brain channels thought waves
from other people, since these words I speak
are not my own thoughts, so my brain must act
like a radio that receives thought waves
that beam from minds of people all around
who think these thoughts, so I hear all their thoughts,
or else my lonely isolated brain
hallucinates these visions from their minds
and invents these thoughts, so I have to speak
my thoughts to pretend I am not I insane.
I am not insane because all my thoughts
are coherent visions that organize
random perceptions that beam in my eyes,
so my eyes suck into vortex of hope
everything I see happen in the world,
and all the visions of movies and books
I ever saw blossom from dead tree limbs
of my brain shaped like webs of galaxies,
and my brain assembles knowledge from facts
to generate complete vision of truth,
yet no one else but me perceives this truth,
for I invent my own truth in my head
based on everything that I ever saw,
and other people see different things happen
so they invent their own truths in their heads,
and all our truths together beam from brains
in rainbows of a thousand different hues.
Perhaps real truth is a blend of all truths
so we babble at each other with words
and argue about what is real or not,
what is an illusion and what is fact,
till we concede basic facts we all see,
then we together create one world view,
except we could all be wrong so our view
deceives us with illusions we think true.
All I know is I am hungry right now
so I want to eat an apple and sing."
Pulling old five dollar bill from his wallet,
Albert folds it into his trembling hand
then continues on to warm coffee shop
where he writes tale about a mad blind seer,
whose words encode visions in cryptic spells,
while eating apple pie of languid faith.

Friday, March 18, 2016

In Godin We Trust

In Godin We Trust
© Surazeus
2016 03 18

Through blasting wind I trudge vast treeless plain,
hauling wagon of apples I obtained
from tangled trees teeming with angry snakes
to enter ring of stones by gushing stream.

Though darkness glows far vaster than small lamp
while swift gushing stream beats my garden wall,
I follow winding trail to tower of stone
and taste driving rain that flows from my eyes.

Old one-eyed man with long gray hair and beard
caresses raven perched on shoulder blade
who nods while I pour apples in brass pot
and boil them to sweet juice over warm flames.

Grim Godin gulps hot apple cider deep
from turtle shell as if he drinks sunlight,
then smacks his lips and grins, pinching my cheek,
and sighs loud as wind buffeting his tower.

While staring at his gaunt and sunburt face,
half-hidden by wind-swept swirls of gray hair
that seams to weave wind and starlight with love,
I feel warm glow of trust beam from my heart.

How many things he taught me of this world,
father wise in ways of this teeming Earth,
when he told me with voice as old as mountains
tales of his father who tamed leaping horse.

I turn to my children huddled by fire
who chant truth spells of animals and trees
while drinking apple cider with gray eyes,
and exclaim with pride, "In Godin we trust."

"In Godin we trust because his good eye
saw birth of this world from mountain of fire,
thus he is wise-earth wizard who knows all
and teaches truth about our teeming world."

Monday, March 14, 2016

GrandMother Of Apples

GrandMother Of Apples
© Surazeus
2016 03 14

While wandering bombed-out ruins of Atlanta,
after world civilization collapsed
in brutal wars between religious cults,
two dozen people find patch of green grass
bursting through cracks in asphalt highway lanes,
so they plant seeds they scavenged from glass stores
and gather together under bright stars.

Old woman with long silver hair that blows
in evening wind, wearing long leather coat,
stands before them as they sit around fire
and opens large book she bears in both hands,
then chants loud basic principles of physics
that describe laws which govern our universe.

They all say Amen, then sing lofty hymns
about atoms, evolution, and math,
gazing upward at infinite space with awe
while old woman recites Song of Creation
that describes beginning of all existence
when Chaos explodes at Flash of Big Bang
then atoms form in swirl of Flaring Forth
to generate galaxies, glowing stars,
and planets where conscious life wakes from dream
as fish evolve mice to monkeys to men.

Old woman spreads her arms wide to gleaming stars
and explains how billions of galaxies
each containing trillions of glowing stars
nourish life on zillions of thriving planets
like our own small world in infinite space,
so we must savor each moment of life
and generate children so we may live
as long as we can in spin of our world.

Old woman tells them of how she was born
when cities gleamed bright, full of human life,
and billions of people drove motor cars,
watched television, flew airplanes in clouds,
and talked to each other on mobile phones,
but people who still believed in old gods
fought vicious wars over whose god was real,
and destroyed everything engineers made.

Old woman smiles as she gazes at eyes
that reflect stars, and whispers soft as wind
that we are still alive in war-torn world
so we shall be fruitful and multiply
to thrive again in this world of lost souls,
then tired grandmother of apples lies down
and closes her eyes of infinite skies.

Seven grandchildren sit around old woman
as she lies down under new apple tree
and dissolves to soil absorbed by its roots,
and they see her face in each blooming apple
that shimmers with drops of refreshing rain.

Thursday, March 10, 2016

My Own Magic Land

My Own Magic Land
© Surazeus
2016 03 10

I will not tell you my real name because
I reinvented myself when I left
that dirty farm where I was born and raised,
so call me Olorin the Sorcerer.

I wandered forlorn cement city streets,
wishing I could find, hidden in dark hall,
secret portal to some magical land
where I could save the day and be crowned king.

I would step through door of shimmering light
and leave this foul modern world of machines
to enter my own magic land of dreams
where I would befriend a talking fox girl.

Her name would be Renartha, Queen of all Artha,
since Artha would be the name of that land,
and she would send me on quest to retrieve
Emerald of Truth from the Cavern of Candor.

While not as fantastic as Fillory,
Narnia, Middle-Earth, Camelot, Oz,
Pern, Mithgar, Lilliput, or Neverland,
yet Artha would be my own magic land.

I would travel to the Mountains of Fear,
to meet an ancient blind man with five eyes
who would teach me how to mold from hard stone
magic wand that beams bright rays of starlight.

He would be a mighty wizard of power,
named Asura, like Gandalf, Dumbledore,
Merlin, Prospero, Archimago, Garth,
and he would teach me arcane key of runes.

I would climb the Trail of Tears through hot rain
where I would battle nine Demons of Despair,
zapping them with rays of light from my wand
that glows when I think of people I love.

Once I arrive at the Cavern of Candor,
I would face a huge ogre with one eye
in face of my father, who would attack
by spelling out my weaknesses and fears.

His mocking words, in tones our preacher used,
calling me a stupid fool blind with pride,
would almost crush my soul with grim despair,
as I fall to my knees in smog of hate.

Then somewhere deep inside my beating heart
I would find vision of an apple orchard
by a sparkling stream where swift horses play,
and I would see two eyes gazing at me.

When I see her face, the girl with gold hair
and silver eyes, I would find in my soul
words that rise on shimmering waves of song
and spiral from my heart on wings of light.

Clear words I chant would beam from out my eyes
and weave bright dome around my trembling body
to conjure from my heart Elysium,
lush river valley of horses and apples.

Rising from my knees as I sing bright spell,
I would battle Ogre of Hate with beams
of light from words of my song, and dispel
his raging horror to liberate my mind.

At last I would descend to underworld
and enter Cavern of Candor where Death
emerges from shadow to grip my heart,
but I would sing and transform him to Life.

Hidden in gloom of my own magic land,
I would find the bright Emerald of Truth
and bear it up with careful hands of love
to stand on mountain in beams of sunlight.

How startled I would be when rays of light
beaming through that Emerald would flash
and transform into a woman whose eyes
enclose infinite skies within her heart.

Taking my hand, and smiling with true love,
she would sing spells with me in harmony
as we make love among tall apple trees
that would scatter white petals on our skin.

Then I would bring her back out to this world
where we would marry and buy a new house,
and raise three children while I work all day
at the state university library.

But here I sit with you in basement room,
so pass me the bong and a glass of wine,
and play the enchanting music of Enya
while I dream about my own magic land.

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

When God Wakes Up Inside My Brain

When God Wakes Up Inside My Brain
2016 02 08

This country where we live is weird.
Our president shaved off her beard.
The White House flies high overhead.
I play chess games though I am dead.
When God wakes up inside my brain
we sing and dance in sun and rain.

I ride black horse in speeding lane.
How can you tell I am insane.
The princess in the castle sings.
I bring new pair of angel wings.
When God wakes up inside my brain
we sing and dance in sun and rain.

You worship my head in a jar.
She is our television star.
I become the fake mirror face.
God disappeared without a trace.
When God wakes up inside my brain
we sing and dance in sun and rain.

Open the door and go inside.
Now play the role where you can hide.
I hide inside this mask I made.
Work all day so you can get paid.
When God wakes up inside my brain
we sing and dance in sun and rain.

Monday, March 7, 2016

Bringer Of Light

Bringer Of Light
© Surazeus
2016 02 07

I cannot find in the trash can of thought
sublime words to express what truth I saw
when I was trudging forlorn and depressed
in drizzling rain of misery and despair,
for a strange vision enlightened my soul.
Fired from that great dream job as therapist,
where I tried to help people find new purpose,
I went home to find my beautiful wife,
who refused my desires these past three years,
in bed with my best friend, and panting wild
with sweet pleasure she never shared with me.
Heart broken in shock and numb with blind rage,
I wandered nowhere in desolate streets
of cold cement, harder than my cracked heart,
wishing I had courage to step before
rumbling garbage truck so its brutish hulk
of mindless indifference to my hopes
would crush my bones into atoms and light.
I must have walked through blinding swirl of mist,
groping lost against rough brick walls of banks,
because I stumbled into ring of stones
on top lush ancient hill of Emerald Isle
beamed bright gold by eternal glowing sun.
I stood astonished in large fairy grove
where warriors in wolf-fur cloaks, gripping spears,
leaped wild and howled around large roaring fire,
and witches in hemp gowns and flower wreaths,
clutching baskets of apples and red mushrooms,
twirled in spiral rings and chanted long hymns.
Then flash of lightning splitting sky of stars
illuminated every face of laughing eyes,
as drum beats ceased and flute tunes faded soft,
and every dancer stood still in close pairs
of man and woman holding hands in circle
of breathing breasts that throbbed with beating hearts.
I knew the names of every face I saw,
all the mothers and fathers of my soul
who ever lived and loved ten thousand years,
and live now as spirits inside my dreams.
I raised my arm and lifted high toward moon
gold scepter gleaming like lost ray of sun
that flashed large diamond eye of gleaming light
as if it held ten thousand stars within,
and shouted with the voice of a young child.
"Behold, from heaven steps our Fairy Queen,
Istara, Mother Goddess of all lands
that blossom flowers on our spinning globe,
who brings sweet juice of life for all to drink."
From swirling mist she stepped, tall slender woman
in flowing gown of gossamer and silk,
head crowned with ring of gold that glittered bright
from light of twelve gems dug from mountain caves.
Her hair like grape vines flowed around her cheeks
in shimmering web that forms woof of this world,
providing fruit for every hand to pluck
so hungry souls of every land may feast.
Her eyes like emeralds cast forth glowing rays
that pierce the hearts of every mortal soul,
and though I was her son, born from her heart,
I felt her eyes extend transforming hands
to gather flowering stars from endless sky
and mold bright shining sun of singing thoughts
that burst on wings of bees and laughing crows
from spiraling eyes of my infinite heart.
"Istara appears now, Bringer of Light,
for she created all this world of things
from words she speaks with breath of misty hills,
and though I die ten thousand times, each life
I live again reborn from fertile womb
propels me forward to follow bright sun
far west around this spinning world of dreams."
But then sweet vision vanished from my eyes
just as I was about to understand
why I thought I was alive, before Death,
immortal Mother alive in every woman,
transformed my fathers into their new sons,
who each became my father in his turn,
and then I stopped on signless road somewhere
between that island of honey and milk,
and this steel city where I stand forlorn,
and turned back to see faces of my fathers
gazing mute at me with assertive eyes.
"Sire a child and give all our souls new life
so we may live again to savor love."
So then I realized with laughing shock
that, though I lost my job and faithless wife,
that life I was playing on sterile stage
was nothing more than drama of desire,
thus now that play is done and audience
of all our friends went home to their own plays.
I quit that tragedy of frail despair,
for now I laugh at comedy of love
as I begin to write another play
that will present my hungry mortal soul
as antihero leaving broken stage.
I begin new quest beyond city streets
of wretched ambition for power and fame
in search for that ring of stones on lush hill
where my ancestors danced and sang wild hymns.
Somewhere outside this absurd theater
of my messy life in this futile play
she waits for me to begin my true quest
exploring this world of a thousand valleys
to find her working in her fertile garden
where she prepares sweet drink that will refresh
my aching heart and fill my soul with love.
Now I will leave these ruins of my life
and bring light to the garden of her heart
where I will build new tower from old stone
and teach our children to sing ancient songs.

Friday, March 4, 2016

Bliss Of Solitude

Bliss Of Solitude
2016 02 04

Where can the mind find solitude today
when even in the most remote locations
I can activate my phone to connect
through social networks to vast world wide web
of dreaming minds who can express their thoughts
through poems and photographs they post online?
Whether driving highways with zooming cars,
walking crowded sidewalks in urban zones,
picking apples or corn in rain-soaked fields,
or climbing rugged mountain slopes to touch
untouchable sky of timeless desire,
I breathe deep air that swirls from singing plants
and feel my soul expand perceptive love
and taste nourishing bliss of solitude. 

Wednesday, March 2, 2016

Winged Wizard Of Lightning

Winged Wizard Of Lightning
2016 02 02

When Agnes was pregnant with second son
and Easter moon shone gleaming blue at dawn
we glided like gold deer in misty woods,
gathering eggs and herbs in baskets we wove.

While gathering mushrooms and apples by pond
where our husbands catch plump delicious fish
a raven blacker than moonless midnight
flew down from gloom and flapped before her face.

Agnes started backward in shocked surprise,
hand clutching at her swiftly beating heart
and then she turned to stare at us with eyes
large as the moon when our blood flows each month.

So when her son was born mid-summer eve
no one was surprised to see that he
was born with a pair of black raven wings,
and his nose was long and sharp like a beak.

Her Robin is wild and undisciplined
and loves to roam in ancient misty woods
and even when he turned twelve years ago
no one had ever heard him speak a word.

One time my sister Bethany told me
she was returning from the church at noon
and saw him dancing in an apple grove
surrounded by fairies with rainbow wings.

We know his father Oberon, weird king
of ancient woods who rules in stonehenge hall,
taught Robin secrets of the trees and flowers,
and how to erect high towers of stone.

Last year when Edward went to market town
he said he saw on distant sun-lit ridge
that black-haired boy in long black flowing hood
running with wolves who transformed into boys.

I think he dwells now in that ancient cave
in rocky cliffs where wise Merlin once dwelled,
where Vicar Jacques saw him on gleaming beach
conjuring thunder storms from surging waves.

Ten years ago in ancient ring of stones
the white-robed druids, wizards of live trees,
crowned him Raven King over Avalon
to guard our misty isle from thieving tribes.

Then last month I saw him with my own eyes
appear in window of that moss-slimed tower
that stands alone above bright waterfall
and peer through diamond at the twinkling stars.

My brother says that Robin traveled far
on flying wand to mountains of Gerthmania
where he learned how to mix potions in cauldrons
that cause people to change to animals.

So now this latest news I tell today
relates the strangest mystery yet seen
how Robin hurled lightning from magic wand
and defeated Sheriff of Nottingham.

King Richard Lion-Heart lead royal army
to fight Salahadin for golden Crown,
that Jesus wore when he came down to Earth,
but he was captured and locked in a castle.

His brother Johan sent tax collectors out
to raise enough gold to ransom our king
and free him from chains so he can come home,
but left our pockets empty of gold coins.

When Robin dared defy his tax collector,
Prince Johan exiled him from Hedingham
and how he leads wild gang in Sherwood Forest
who steal from the rich and give to the poor.

While we were riding with two chests of gold
to visit cathedral in Sorbiodunum
swift Robin Hood appeared from misty grove
and requested donation from our hands.

Weeping to see how poor peasants live,
huddled half naked and starving in huts,
I offered ten coins with generous love
and winged wizard smiled in feather hood.

But Sheriff of Nottingham then appeared,
aiming sharp sword at heart of Robin Hood,
and demanded he surrender to justice,
so I feared noble hero would be hanged.

Robin raised his arm that held shining wand,
carved from dark oak to resemble a dragon,
and cast a spell that called on Mercurius,
which caused flash of light to explode in flame.

I cast my eyes at face of Nottingham
and saw his head explode in burst of blood
as if bright bolt of lightning struck his head
which shattered like an egg struck by a rock.

With my own eyes I saw Nottingham fall,
though he was standing fifty paces far,
when Robin aimed magic wand at his head
and cast beam of light that struck tall man dead.

That Robin Hood is our great Raven King
who rules this isle of mist with magic wand,
most powerful wizard who controls weather
and can strike people dead with beams of light.

When Raven startled his mother that dawn,
we knew that Robin was chosen by Odin
to reign as Giver of Justice and Good,
so he wears long hood to hide angel wings.

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Beyond Far Hills

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.