Wandering Toward Oblivion
© Surazeus
2018 06 05
Wandering toward oblivion, I arrive
at the shadow that always watches me,
so I sit at the edge of the sea cliff
and gaze into the abyss of my heart
to inhale the infinite emptiness
of salty wind that fills my soul with joy.
When I talk to the sky the wind consumes
spirit of strange words I try to express
which blow tangled in vines over cracked rocks
of my aching heart when I reach out hands
to pluck strawberries of immortal light
which burns awake the pain of joyful love.
Last winter sixteen women in our village
died giving birth to their children who died,
bleeding on the floor in silent despair,
so old women with gray hair and weak eyes
are all the women in our village left
still alive, except for me, twelve years old.
While we were sitting around village hearth,
faces illuminated by gold flames,
twenty men and boys stared at me with lust,
so I ran into shadows of the night
to hide from their desire in secret cave
where the women used to hide every month.
"I am too young to bear children," I shouted,
slipping from the strength of their groping hands,
because they took turns with my older sister
who lay weeping and died while giving birth,
bleeding into the dark heart of the world,
and left me alone in village of men.
Clambering up into the ancient oak tree
that leans over the cliff above the sea,
I watch the men of my family run
to surround the tribe traveling by the river,
kill the men and drag the girls to our village,
and weep as I hear them scream for three days.
Slipping into my village after dark,
I wake the girls and lead them in moonlight
to the secret cave where we hide in shadow,
breathing softly as we hear the men shout
while they run around looking for the girls,
howling angrily in the glowing sun.
Climbing down to the shore of the wild sea,
we gather clams and mushrooms in nine baskets,
then appear by the village hearth at dawn
where the men laugh with delight as they wait
while we brew clam chowder with soft mushrooms,
and they dance and sing in anticipation.
The hungry men consume clam mushroom chowder,
then grope our thighs as we slip beyond grasp,
and they groan and writhe in sharp agony,
then howl in blind rage from blood-stained dirt,
clutching with horror at the empty sky,
till they all lie silent and dead at dusk.
We burn them all and dance around the fire,
leaping and chanting under flashing stars,
then float in pleasant waves of swirling dreams,
kissing and caressing with gentle hands,
and fall asleep embraced among the flowers
where the river sings our forgotten names.
When we wake among the flowers of joy,
twelve young girls who escaped the lust of men,
we find ourselves surrounded by tall men
wearing metal that flashes in the sun
who take us to the towering ziggurat
where people tend gardens around the palace.
We stand before old man on throne of gold
whose seven sons inspect us with their hands
and the youngest boy takes me by the hand
and leads me to his room down the long hall
where we sit by the pool and eat sweet dates
while three old blind women strums silver harps.
Bald men bathe me clean in warm sparkling pool
and dress me in gown glittering with gems,
then I walk with the boy to palace hall
where we stand with his brothers and their girls
while the old man sitting on the gold throne
hears people argue then proclaims his law.
The old man sends his six older sons far
to reign like him on ziggurats of gardens,
then crowns the boy I live with as his heir,
and as he lies dying in the afternoon sun
he proclaims my kind boy God in his place,
and he crowns me First Mother of All Tribes.
Robed in jewels, I lie on fur-covered bed
in the palace hall, and while women sing
everyone watches God make love to me,
filling me with sacred seed of his soul
so they will know my child is his alone,
and hold him as we cry in ecstasy.
After I give birth to our baby boy,
I sit on the throne holding on my lap
the incarnation of God from my womb,
and everyone bearing gifts in their hands
kneel before my face on high ziggurat,
then choir of girls sing sweet hymns of praise.
While milking his cute baby at my breast,
I see him with another nubile girl,
so I shout in anger at his betrayal,
but he slaps my face and proclaims aloud
I am nothing but the vessel of God,
while he is God and can do what he wants.
Slipping from the palace in dim moonlight,
I glide down ziggurat stairs to the plain
with my baby wrapped warm in fearful arms,
and run through the maze of markets and farms,
then along the river to my old village
where I hide in my cave by the calm sea.
Each day I walk across the shining sand,
holding the hand of my boy as he grows,
and teach him how to break open clam shells
and gather strawberries from cliffside vines,
then he runs along the beach chasing birds,
flapping his arms wide as he tries to fly.
Wandering toward oblivion, we arrive
at the shadow that always watches us,
so we sit at the edge of the sea cliff
and gaze into the abyss of our hearts
to inhale the infinite emptiness
of salty wind that fills our souls with joy.
© Surazeus
2018 06 05
Wandering toward oblivion, I arrive
at the shadow that always watches me,
so I sit at the edge of the sea cliff
and gaze into the abyss of my heart
to inhale the infinite emptiness
of salty wind that fills my soul with joy.
When I talk to the sky the wind consumes
spirit of strange words I try to express
which blow tangled in vines over cracked rocks
of my aching heart when I reach out hands
to pluck strawberries of immortal light
which burns awake the pain of joyful love.
Last winter sixteen women in our village
died giving birth to their children who died,
bleeding on the floor in silent despair,
so old women with gray hair and weak eyes
are all the women in our village left
still alive, except for me, twelve years old.
While we were sitting around village hearth,
faces illuminated by gold flames,
twenty men and boys stared at me with lust,
so I ran into shadows of the night
to hide from their desire in secret cave
where the women used to hide every month.
"I am too young to bear children," I shouted,
slipping from the strength of their groping hands,
because they took turns with my older sister
who lay weeping and died while giving birth,
bleeding into the dark heart of the world,
and left me alone in village of men.
Clambering up into the ancient oak tree
that leans over the cliff above the sea,
I watch the men of my family run
to surround the tribe traveling by the river,
kill the men and drag the girls to our village,
and weep as I hear them scream for three days.
Slipping into my village after dark,
I wake the girls and lead them in moonlight
to the secret cave where we hide in shadow,
breathing softly as we hear the men shout
while they run around looking for the girls,
howling angrily in the glowing sun.
Climbing down to the shore of the wild sea,
we gather clams and mushrooms in nine baskets,
then appear by the village hearth at dawn
where the men laugh with delight as they wait
while we brew clam chowder with soft mushrooms,
and they dance and sing in anticipation.
The hungry men consume clam mushroom chowder,
then grope our thighs as we slip beyond grasp,
and they groan and writhe in sharp agony,
then howl in blind rage from blood-stained dirt,
clutching with horror at the empty sky,
till they all lie silent and dead at dusk.
We burn them all and dance around the fire,
leaping and chanting under flashing stars,
then float in pleasant waves of swirling dreams,
kissing and caressing with gentle hands,
and fall asleep embraced among the flowers
where the river sings our forgotten names.
When we wake among the flowers of joy,
twelve young girls who escaped the lust of men,
we find ourselves surrounded by tall men
wearing metal that flashes in the sun
who take us to the towering ziggurat
where people tend gardens around the palace.
We stand before old man on throne of gold
whose seven sons inspect us with their hands
and the youngest boy takes me by the hand
and leads me to his room down the long hall
where we sit by the pool and eat sweet dates
while three old blind women strums silver harps.
Bald men bathe me clean in warm sparkling pool
and dress me in gown glittering with gems,
then I walk with the boy to palace hall
where we stand with his brothers and their girls
while the old man sitting on the gold throne
hears people argue then proclaims his law.
The old man sends his six older sons far
to reign like him on ziggurats of gardens,
then crowns the boy I live with as his heir,
and as he lies dying in the afternoon sun
he proclaims my kind boy God in his place,
and he crowns me First Mother of All Tribes.
Robed in jewels, I lie on fur-covered bed
in the palace hall, and while women sing
everyone watches God make love to me,
filling me with sacred seed of his soul
so they will know my child is his alone,
and hold him as we cry in ecstasy.
After I give birth to our baby boy,
I sit on the throne holding on my lap
the incarnation of God from my womb,
and everyone bearing gifts in their hands
kneel before my face on high ziggurat,
then choir of girls sing sweet hymns of praise.
While milking his cute baby at my breast,
I see him with another nubile girl,
so I shout in anger at his betrayal,
but he slaps my face and proclaims aloud
I am nothing but the vessel of God,
while he is God and can do what he wants.
Slipping from the palace in dim moonlight,
I glide down ziggurat stairs to the plain
with my baby wrapped warm in fearful arms,
and run through the maze of markets and farms,
then along the river to my old village
where I hide in my cave by the calm sea.
Each day I walk across the shining sand,
holding the hand of my boy as he grows,
and teach him how to break open clam shells
and gather strawberries from cliffside vines,
then he runs along the beach chasing birds,
flapping his arms wide as he tries to fly.
Wandering toward oblivion, we arrive
at the shadow that always watches us,
so we sit at the edge of the sea cliff
and gaze into the abyss of our hearts
to inhale the infinite emptiness
of salty wind that fills our souls with joy.
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