Son Of Arethon
© Surazeus
2018 07 21
My entire life seems to be nothing more
than walking through doors of experience
where I play role I do not understand
in strange endless drama of hungry hope
with no director and no cameras
recording my meaningless interactions
with family, friends, and strangers whom I meet
at random in the weird labyrinth of scenes
that never connect to the denouement
which fails to weave loose strands of my plot
in noble purpose for my bumbling life.
We all play our part in the food machine
that generates biomass from rich dirt
so we can sit in tower of steel and glass
to eat chocolate and drink wine from Bordeaux
whose roots drink tears from River of Garumna,
but I walk away from the stage of power
and return to the valley of my birth
to stand again in sparkling mist of life
that flashes from Aigualluts Waterfall
and tinkles on my cheeks flushed with desire.
I climb up to the highest jagged peak
of the snow-frosted mountain to touch stars
that illuminate the wild Pyrenees,
and shout, "I am the son of Arethon,
and I am not the servant nor the slave
of any man who claims they rule the land
for I am the Light-Maker of my Truth."
On the shore of the Lake of Creguenya,
I dream about the history of the world,
then dissolve into clear waters of time
and flow into swift current of the river
to soak into the soil of fertile valleys
where I bloom into the wheat and the grapes
to wake in the cells of all human bodies
when they eat bread as the flesh of the Earth
and they drink wine as the blood of the Earth,
so I become memories in their brain cells.
I am the endless spin of wagon wheels
and the strong muscles of farmers and vintners
who harvest nurturing spirit of the Earth
so when we gather in the hall of stone
we eat its flesh and drink its blood to flash
awake the ancient soul of pulsing stars
which urge our bodies forward to attain
heights of conscious awareness on the peak
of jagged mountains where only the wind
knows the true name that flowers in our minds.
I wander jagged mountains of my heart,
searching for gentle Pyrene, my bride,
pregnant with the serpent of my desire,
but by the waterfall of roaring sorrow
I find her body torn apart by wolves,
so I heap words of lamentations high
in anguished remorse at my careless lust
to build frosted mountains as monument
to destructive cost of my arrogance.
True history of human mistakes is recorded
in fabulous myths of preliterate tribes
who gather by the lake on mountain top
to eat mushrooms and dance in sparkling snow
that swirls from the eyes of the watching moon
who gives each human soul their secret name,
which flashes brightly in my dreaming eyes
while I ride the bus to downtown Seattle
four thousand years after I climbed Nethou Peak
and drank tears from Aigualluts Waterfall.
How did I get here to this mountain vale,
climbing from the shipwreck on the white sand
when I escaped from Egypt on small boat
because my brother crowned himself Pharaoh
though our father handed me crook and flail,
clambering over jagged rocks to escape
assassins who followed me over the sea,
so I turn to face them, but they kneel down
and proclaim their loyalty to my rule.
I am Arethon, son of wise Osiris,
and here beside the lake of shining stars
I will build new kingdom of the Sun Hawk,
so we plant grape vines on lush rolling hills
then drink to celebrate our father Shezmu
when I crown Meret Queen of Mountain Snow
who cradles child of my seed on her lap
while she sings on Creation of the World.
I assemble weird puzzle of this vision
from flashes of memory I perceive
when I gaze at colorful photograph
that shows Aigualluts Waterfall in mist
still splashing white as the Book of the Stars
over jagged rocks of my aching heart
ten thousand years after I first ascended
winding river to its origin lake
where I still see my face in deep blue water
which reveals the role I will choose to play.
© Surazeus
2018 07 21
My entire life seems to be nothing more
than walking through doors of experience
where I play role I do not understand
in strange endless drama of hungry hope
with no director and no cameras
recording my meaningless interactions
with family, friends, and strangers whom I meet
at random in the weird labyrinth of scenes
that never connect to the denouement
which fails to weave loose strands of my plot
in noble purpose for my bumbling life.
We all play our part in the food machine
that generates biomass from rich dirt
so we can sit in tower of steel and glass
to eat chocolate and drink wine from Bordeaux
whose roots drink tears from River of Garumna,
but I walk away from the stage of power
and return to the valley of my birth
to stand again in sparkling mist of life
that flashes from Aigualluts Waterfall
and tinkles on my cheeks flushed with desire.
I climb up to the highest jagged peak
of the snow-frosted mountain to touch stars
that illuminate the wild Pyrenees,
and shout, "I am the son of Arethon,
and I am not the servant nor the slave
of any man who claims they rule the land
for I am the Light-Maker of my Truth."
On the shore of the Lake of Creguenya,
I dream about the history of the world,
then dissolve into clear waters of time
and flow into swift current of the river
to soak into the soil of fertile valleys
where I bloom into the wheat and the grapes
to wake in the cells of all human bodies
when they eat bread as the flesh of the Earth
and they drink wine as the blood of the Earth,
so I become memories in their brain cells.
I am the endless spin of wagon wheels
and the strong muscles of farmers and vintners
who harvest nurturing spirit of the Earth
so when we gather in the hall of stone
we eat its flesh and drink its blood to flash
awake the ancient soul of pulsing stars
which urge our bodies forward to attain
heights of conscious awareness on the peak
of jagged mountains where only the wind
knows the true name that flowers in our minds.
I wander jagged mountains of my heart,
searching for gentle Pyrene, my bride,
pregnant with the serpent of my desire,
but by the waterfall of roaring sorrow
I find her body torn apart by wolves,
so I heap words of lamentations high
in anguished remorse at my careless lust
to build frosted mountains as monument
to destructive cost of my arrogance.
True history of human mistakes is recorded
in fabulous myths of preliterate tribes
who gather by the lake on mountain top
to eat mushrooms and dance in sparkling snow
that swirls from the eyes of the watching moon
who gives each human soul their secret name,
which flashes brightly in my dreaming eyes
while I ride the bus to downtown Seattle
four thousand years after I climbed Nethou Peak
and drank tears from Aigualluts Waterfall.
How did I get here to this mountain vale,
climbing from the shipwreck on the white sand
when I escaped from Egypt on small boat
because my brother crowned himself Pharaoh
though our father handed me crook and flail,
clambering over jagged rocks to escape
assassins who followed me over the sea,
so I turn to face them, but they kneel down
and proclaim their loyalty to my rule.
I am Arethon, son of wise Osiris,
and here beside the lake of shining stars
I will build new kingdom of the Sun Hawk,
so we plant grape vines on lush rolling hills
then drink to celebrate our father Shezmu
when I crown Meret Queen of Mountain Snow
who cradles child of my seed on her lap
while she sings on Creation of the World.
I assemble weird puzzle of this vision
from flashes of memory I perceive
when I gaze at colorful photograph
that shows Aigualluts Waterfall in mist
still splashing white as the Book of the Stars
over jagged rocks of my aching heart
ten thousand years after I first ascended
winding river to its origin lake
where I still see my face in deep blue water
which reveals the role I will choose to play.
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