To Reach The Sky
© Surazeus
2018 07 03
On high slope of the mountain by the sea
the old man roasts goat over ring of stones
and the young boy crushes grapes in wood bowl,
while Starlings chirp in Cephalonian Firs.
Picking pink Peony blooms, the young boy
sips grape juice and gazes at the blue sky.
"The vast sky looks blue as the Starling egg.
Do we live inside some giant blue bird egg?"
The old man chuckles while stroking his beard,
then strips thin slices of roasted goat meat,
and they eat while sizzling fat drops in dirt.
"I see how the sky looks like Starling eggs.
When I was young boy many years ago,
just about your age, fourteen summers old,
we herded goats down slope of Mount Parnassos,
to market in Delphi, great city of temples.
Inside the painted stoa hall of pillars
two men in long white robes were arguing
about the nature of our world of things,
how everything is matter shaped by forms.
They argued that our world is a round sphere
which floats unmoving at the central core
of the organized Kosmos, so all matter
falls downward to form world of changing shapes.
Each object we perceive with open eyes,
like tree or horse, which follows standard pattern,
conforms to changeless idea of that thing
which persists in perfect realm of ideas.
The sky is made of moving crystal spheres,
pushed into motion by the divine Craftsman,
who causes matter of four elements
to flow down and form all existing things.
Thus out beyond the shining egg-blue sky
the Craftsman who created our whole world
stores forms of things like statues in museum
he uses to stamp things into existence."
The young boy gazes at the egg-blue sky
and longs to climb beyond this world of pain,
ascending high on flapping wings of birds,
to dwell in paradise of perfect things.
Climbing the tallest pine tree he can find,
the young boy ascends above changing world,
ever gazing toward the bright light of truth,
planning to climb above the swirling clouds.
Reaching the highest point of the pine tree,
the young boy emerges from canopy
of interlacing branches into wind,
and breathing deep he stretches out his arm.
Stretching his arm and fingers toward the sky,
the young boy strains to touch the crystal shell
and grab it tight so he can climb through light
and walk in bright temple of perfect ideas.
Just as he thinks he almost touches the sky,
the boy feels himself falling toward the world
when the tip of the pine tree bends downward
from heavy weight of his eager desire.
Grasping tip of the pine tree with both hands,
like the priest grips the horns of the wild bull,
the young boy flails his legs and howls in fear
as the tree bends swiftly toward the hard ground.
The tree stops bending so he hangs in space
twenty feet above the ground of sharp rocks,
then the old man runs to stand just below
and spreads his arms to catch him when he falls.
Shrieking in terror of the wrenching pain
he will feel if he falls and breaks his leg,
the boy dangles suspended from the sky,
then closes his eyes to relax his grip.
Falling through bottomless abyss of death,
the boy howls and tenses to hit the ground,
but the old man catches him in both arms
and swings him sideways to fall on soft flowers.
Tumbling on the soft bed of pink Peonies,
the boy gasps surprised and opens his eyes,
then hugs the old man as his heart beats while,
and leaps around the camp like a playful goat.
Sitting exhausted by the flickering fire,
the boy gazes up at the egg-blue sky,
and reaches his hands toward its gleaming light,
then sighs and stares at the flowers he crushed.
"I thought I could climb up and reach the sky,
but either the crystal shells you described
are much farther away than my short arm,
or nothing at all exists beyond air.
Perhaps every little star twinkling bright,
that we see on the vast River of Milk,
is large as the sun that glows in our sky
and nourishes some round world like our own.
I will never again try to reach high
enough to touch the crystal shell of ideas,
instead focus attention of my mind
to understand truth of our changing world."
On high slope of the mountain by the sea
the old man plucks ringing strings on the lyre
and the young boy dances under bright stars
while white owls hoot in Cephalonian Firs.
© Surazeus
2018 07 03
On high slope of the mountain by the sea
the old man roasts goat over ring of stones
and the young boy crushes grapes in wood bowl,
while Starlings chirp in Cephalonian Firs.
Picking pink Peony blooms, the young boy
sips grape juice and gazes at the blue sky.
"The vast sky looks blue as the Starling egg.
Do we live inside some giant blue bird egg?"
The old man chuckles while stroking his beard,
then strips thin slices of roasted goat meat,
and they eat while sizzling fat drops in dirt.
"I see how the sky looks like Starling eggs.
When I was young boy many years ago,
just about your age, fourteen summers old,
we herded goats down slope of Mount Parnassos,
to market in Delphi, great city of temples.
Inside the painted stoa hall of pillars
two men in long white robes were arguing
about the nature of our world of things,
how everything is matter shaped by forms.
They argued that our world is a round sphere
which floats unmoving at the central core
of the organized Kosmos, so all matter
falls downward to form world of changing shapes.
Each object we perceive with open eyes,
like tree or horse, which follows standard pattern,
conforms to changeless idea of that thing
which persists in perfect realm of ideas.
The sky is made of moving crystal spheres,
pushed into motion by the divine Craftsman,
who causes matter of four elements
to flow down and form all existing things.
Thus out beyond the shining egg-blue sky
the Craftsman who created our whole world
stores forms of things like statues in museum
he uses to stamp things into existence."
The young boy gazes at the egg-blue sky
and longs to climb beyond this world of pain,
ascending high on flapping wings of birds,
to dwell in paradise of perfect things.
Climbing the tallest pine tree he can find,
the young boy ascends above changing world,
ever gazing toward the bright light of truth,
planning to climb above the swirling clouds.
Reaching the highest point of the pine tree,
the young boy emerges from canopy
of interlacing branches into wind,
and breathing deep he stretches out his arm.
Stretching his arm and fingers toward the sky,
the young boy strains to touch the crystal shell
and grab it tight so he can climb through light
and walk in bright temple of perfect ideas.
Just as he thinks he almost touches the sky,
the boy feels himself falling toward the world
when the tip of the pine tree bends downward
from heavy weight of his eager desire.
Grasping tip of the pine tree with both hands,
like the priest grips the horns of the wild bull,
the young boy flails his legs and howls in fear
as the tree bends swiftly toward the hard ground.
The tree stops bending so he hangs in space
twenty feet above the ground of sharp rocks,
then the old man runs to stand just below
and spreads his arms to catch him when he falls.
Shrieking in terror of the wrenching pain
he will feel if he falls and breaks his leg,
the boy dangles suspended from the sky,
then closes his eyes to relax his grip.
Falling through bottomless abyss of death,
the boy howls and tenses to hit the ground,
but the old man catches him in both arms
and swings him sideways to fall on soft flowers.
Tumbling on the soft bed of pink Peonies,
the boy gasps surprised and opens his eyes,
then hugs the old man as his heart beats while,
and leaps around the camp like a playful goat.
Sitting exhausted by the flickering fire,
the boy gazes up at the egg-blue sky,
and reaches his hands toward its gleaming light,
then sighs and stares at the flowers he crushed.
"I thought I could climb up and reach the sky,
but either the crystal shells you described
are much farther away than my short arm,
or nothing at all exists beyond air.
Perhaps every little star twinkling bright,
that we see on the vast River of Milk,
is large as the sun that glows in our sky
and nourishes some round world like our own.
I will never again try to reach high
enough to touch the crystal shell of ideas,
instead focus attention of my mind
to understand truth of our changing world."
On high slope of the mountain by the sea
the old man plucks ringing strings on the lyre
and the young boy dances under bright stars
while white owls hoot in Cephalonian Firs.
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