Spirit Of Takoma
© Surazeus
2017 10 23
Mist swirls among pines to reflect the eyes
of people who lived in this pungent grove
ten thousand years before this silent dawn
I sit beside the greenhouse full of ferns,
waiting to work before attending school,
and feel Mount Takoma throb in my heart.
After living in flat Texas ten years
since I was four years old, I stare in awe
at sleeping volcano scraping the sky
named Takoma, mother of all clear streams
that flow from the snow sparkling on her slopes
so I kneel and drink water of her eyes.
I climb steep trail that winds around high peaks
and name each flower blooming from dark soil
with secret words I find in sparkling snow
on sacred mountain that spews flames of love
the past five hundred thousand years of breath,
for she is the mother of singing wind.
On Naches Peak I stand on waves of wind
and gaze at Mount Takoma looming large
as wild Olympus where human gods sing,
so I sing the journey of my ancestors
from Ararat to Parnassus on wings
of ravens who guide me across the sea.
I see the mouth of Nichiwana River
where travelers from Sibir and Alaska
sailed boats into the heart of Onatah
and spread to every corner of the land
where Sun Spider Woman in canyon cave
weaves sunlight into my heart-warming cape.
While Hesiod played bone flute on Helicon,
and Apollo played lyre on fertile slope
of Parnassus to chant legends of Heroes,
I play guitar on adamantine slopes
of Mount Takoma where wise Spider Woman
weaves new body for my eternal soul.
When I am wandering lost in ancient wood
I step through mist to stand on narrow peak
and feel this giant sphere of dirt and water,
which nurtures our souls, spinning in vast void,
and gaping emptiness of vast abyss
fills my beating heart with soul-vibrant atoms.
Before my eyes, in beams of singing sun,
the Spirit of Takoma flashes bright
as young woman who generates our souls
and sparks my brain with fingers of moonlight
so I can dream whole history of our world
and how pulsing atoms evolve to man.
© Surazeus
2017 10 23
Mist swirls among pines to reflect the eyes
of people who lived in this pungent grove
ten thousand years before this silent dawn
I sit beside the greenhouse full of ferns,
waiting to work before attending school,
and feel Mount Takoma throb in my heart.
After living in flat Texas ten years
since I was four years old, I stare in awe
at sleeping volcano scraping the sky
named Takoma, mother of all clear streams
that flow from the snow sparkling on her slopes
so I kneel and drink water of her eyes.
I climb steep trail that winds around high peaks
and name each flower blooming from dark soil
with secret words I find in sparkling snow
on sacred mountain that spews flames of love
the past five hundred thousand years of breath,
for she is the mother of singing wind.
On Naches Peak I stand on waves of wind
and gaze at Mount Takoma looming large
as wild Olympus where human gods sing,
so I sing the journey of my ancestors
from Ararat to Parnassus on wings
of ravens who guide me across the sea.
I see the mouth of Nichiwana River
where travelers from Sibir and Alaska
sailed boats into the heart of Onatah
and spread to every corner of the land
where Sun Spider Woman in canyon cave
weaves sunlight into my heart-warming cape.
While Hesiod played bone flute on Helicon,
and Apollo played lyre on fertile slope
of Parnassus to chant legends of Heroes,
I play guitar on adamantine slopes
of Mount Takoma where wise Spider Woman
weaves new body for my eternal soul.
When I am wandering lost in ancient wood
I step through mist to stand on narrow peak
and feel this giant sphere of dirt and water,
which nurtures our souls, spinning in vast void,
and gaping emptiness of vast abyss
fills my beating heart with soul-vibrant atoms.
Before my eyes, in beams of singing sun,
the Spirit of Takoma flashes bright
as young woman who generates our souls
and sparks my brain with fingers of moonlight
so I can dream whole history of our world
and how pulsing atoms evolve to man.
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