Friday, February 10, 2017

Mask Of First Mother

Mask Of First Mother
© Surazeus
2017 02 10

I open blank door and walk the long hall
toward gold sunlight on the transparent floor,
then stop before the painting on the wall
that shows blonde woman in flowing white gown
who holds book of destiny while she leads
her people far across the wind-swept plain
toward high jagged mountains sparkling with snow,
and wish I walk beside her holding hands.

How often on the journey down long road
from ancient city of our mothers, burned
by angry gangs of men who wield sharp swords,
she hesitated on small hill and stared
at gleaming sunlight to discern true way
of safe passage through waste land of despair,
and sighed wishing she could sing among flowers,
but she persisted, inspired by our faith.

Her gleaming eyes seemed to pierce future mist
and lead us singing to lush river shore
where we constructed temple of white stone
to shelter her from danger of wild storm,
and in its shining hall of wind and light
she sat on throne of stones and proclaimed laws
that teach us principles of honest love
to guide our actions through drama of life.

We trusted words of wisdom from her heart
so much that, when she died while golden moon
gleamed red as blood through mist-shrouded oak trees,
we carved her image from white stone of light
and set inanimate form on her throne,
so when we gather at her feet to pray
and meditate on how she would have ruled
we find her voice singing from all our hearts.

Now when young worshippers arrive in court
and bow before huge statue of our queen
I stand forward and listen to their questions,
then, speaking with voice of our divine leader,
I proclaim words of wisdom from her soul,
but then I linger by statue of gold
to caress her hands and kiss her cold mouth,
and weep with longing to embrace her warmth.

With principles of her wisdom, I guide
our nation to expand beyond old bounds
and lead them forth to conquer many tribes
so we assimilate through intermarriage
all separate tribes into one global clan
by building system to produce more food,
yet strange winds blow when full moon glitters red
and fruit trees blossom from corpse in our graves.

Now slipping from the painting on the wall,
I fall back down into this present world,
and wonder amazed that this splotch of paint
activates ancient memories in my brain,
so I dance around fire at sunset gleam
which pierces hearts of honest men with love
and activate inside my heart her soul
so First Mother gazes out from my eyes.

Alone I stand on hill in sunset gleam
where full moon rises from soft silver mist
and gleams through black branches of apple trees
that will illuminate inside my brain
complex history of human strife for truth
so I will dream each interaction played
by characters on broad stage of my faith
and wear this mask of First Mother I am.

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