Friday, June 15, 2018

Cave Of Our White Sun

Cave Of Our White Sun
© Surazeus
2018 06 15

Without new refrigerator of light
to preserve old memories we discard
we might discover where the river runs
to cleanse our hearts of sorrow at the loss
we must abide to calculate the truth.

Lying flat on lush grass under apple tree,
I lean over the river of strange light
and write names of the weird people I love
because I see their eyes in sunlit depths
though they disappear from weird world of wind.

Blind Skathi sits on television tube
and flies it swift around the spinning world
to photograph the face of every human
who stands in slanting rays of the new sun
although she molds my brain from Ocean sponge.

I sit on my back porch in summer sun
and sip iced lemonade while watching birds
that chirp with urgent voice of prophecy
play poets in Theater of Lost Dreams
in search for fame and glory after death.

I feel like I should imitate their play
and tour the country in old rusty van
to read poems in university halls
and book stores to small select audiences
who appreciate my obscure references.

But here I float in languid afternoon
like wordless fish in shimmering pond of rays
who sings vibration of the universe
in writhing rainbows of random thought spells
through enchanting tunes of her crystal flute.

Encoding song of rivers in Tree Runes,
which programs haunting melody of hope,
Skathi stands on pyramid in twilight glow
and sings creation of the universe
in hymn that sparks visions inside my eyes.

I was born long before the mountain wind
brought moonlight to reveal path I create
through wilderness of trees and rippling ponds
so I head for home that never exists
at Sigel Harrow, cave of our white sun.

When I fall in river of weeping tears
and reach my hands to grasp indifferent moon
wild-haired Skathi dives into gushing flood
and pulls me safe to Emerald of Dreams
where I see all that happens in the world.

When I get lost in vast world of illusions
I return to Dream Cave where I was born
on southern shore of the vast Caspian Sea
near Mount Damavand in Mazandaran
where Skathi taught me how to sing the truth.

I venture forth beyond old garden walls,
exploring valleys and high mountain slopes
to touch the mystery of each singing tree
and find where people bury broken hearts
so I can pluck fruit from tree of their brains.

Ten thousand years after I left my cave
I stand on sea shore of lush Oregon
to translate song of waves that sing our names
and write the story of my endless quest
to discover the origin of light.

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