Dark Labyrinth Of Lies
© Surazeus
2018 03 02
Each afternoon when the sun glimmers bright
and wind ruffles tufts of grass among trees,
Shamash strolls down to the lush river shore
and sits on the cool stone to fish and dream.
Lifting the long yew pole with both his hands,
Shamash casts the small net of woven vines
in flowing stream to snare fast wriggling fish
till his basket is full of flashing scales.
While gazing across the broad yellow stream
Shamash sees huge ziggurat in gold haze
and feels strange longing to attend the rites
where his father presided many years.
He remembers people standing in rows
while they lead cows up stairs to the flat top,
and the goddess Ishtar in robe and crown
who sang how the Sun created the World.
He looks at his hands and remembers how
he grasped the sharp blade and slit the white throat,
and blood gushed to fill the cauldron for stew
while his father spread his arms and chanted prayers.
Gazing at huge ziggurat in bright haze,
Shamash smiles at the memory of the feast,
eating roast beef, drinking wine, chomping figs,
and consuming boiled eggs of birds and snakes.
How beautiful the women in long gowns
with strange curling hair golden as the sunlight
who strummed harps, rattled tambourines, and drummed
while they chanted tales about noble heroes.
The sweet melodies of their flutes still echo,
ringing in the warm, late afternoon air,
and haunts his heart with aching sorrow of loss,
for even now they must be roasting beef.
Strange look of horror flickers in his eyes
when Shamash gazes past the shining haze,
then shudders at soul-searing memory
so horrible he blanks his eyes, and sighs.
Wild bitter arguments between cruel priests
about the nature of our world and man
tore the fabric of our community
till they killed any who dared disagree.
They threw my father off high temple wall,
then priests roamed the streets to hunt all dissenters,
wielding sticks to attack those who break laws,
and I escaped at night in tattered cloak.
I came here to this village by the river
to escape the malaise of bitter wars
for political power that stirred its halls,
like hornets buzzing around nest of lies.
When I was still naive innocent youth
I enjoyed the festivals of rebirth,
but now I savor this grove of fruit trees
where only the wind dances in twilight.
When gangs of men who think they know the truth
attack and kill dissenters from their faith
they crush the beauty of religious rites
and stain sweet hymns with poison of their hate.
I lived in fear that they would crush my soul
till I escaped the dark labyrinth of lies
and fled the temple where I loved to sing,
so now I live in peace far from their prison.
Still sitting alone on lush river shore,
Shamash watches flowers ruffled by wind,
then reaches out his hand to pluck ripe fig
and eats it while watching the river flow.
© Surazeus
2018 03 02
Each afternoon when the sun glimmers bright
and wind ruffles tufts of grass among trees,
Shamash strolls down to the lush river shore
and sits on the cool stone to fish and dream.
Lifting the long yew pole with both his hands,
Shamash casts the small net of woven vines
in flowing stream to snare fast wriggling fish
till his basket is full of flashing scales.
While gazing across the broad yellow stream
Shamash sees huge ziggurat in gold haze
and feels strange longing to attend the rites
where his father presided many years.
He remembers people standing in rows
while they lead cows up stairs to the flat top,
and the goddess Ishtar in robe and crown
who sang how the Sun created the World.
He looks at his hands and remembers how
he grasped the sharp blade and slit the white throat,
and blood gushed to fill the cauldron for stew
while his father spread his arms and chanted prayers.
Gazing at huge ziggurat in bright haze,
Shamash smiles at the memory of the feast,
eating roast beef, drinking wine, chomping figs,
and consuming boiled eggs of birds and snakes.
How beautiful the women in long gowns
with strange curling hair golden as the sunlight
who strummed harps, rattled tambourines, and drummed
while they chanted tales about noble heroes.
The sweet melodies of their flutes still echo,
ringing in the warm, late afternoon air,
and haunts his heart with aching sorrow of loss,
for even now they must be roasting beef.
Strange look of horror flickers in his eyes
when Shamash gazes past the shining haze,
then shudders at soul-searing memory
so horrible he blanks his eyes, and sighs.
Wild bitter arguments between cruel priests
about the nature of our world and man
tore the fabric of our community
till they killed any who dared disagree.
They threw my father off high temple wall,
then priests roamed the streets to hunt all dissenters,
wielding sticks to attack those who break laws,
and I escaped at night in tattered cloak.
I came here to this village by the river
to escape the malaise of bitter wars
for political power that stirred its halls,
like hornets buzzing around nest of lies.
When I was still naive innocent youth
I enjoyed the festivals of rebirth,
but now I savor this grove of fruit trees
where only the wind dances in twilight.
When gangs of men who think they know the truth
attack and kill dissenters from their faith
they crush the beauty of religious rites
and stain sweet hymns with poison of their hate.
I lived in fear that they would crush my soul
till I escaped the dark labyrinth of lies
and fled the temple where I loved to sing,
so now I live in peace far from their prison.
Still sitting alone on lush river shore,
Shamash watches flowers ruffled by wind,
then reaches out his hand to pluck ripe fig
and eats it while watching the river flow.
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