Ethnopoetics Of Lost Souls
© Surazeus
2018 11 21
I cry the ancient voice of silent souls
who feel strange swirl of visions in their minds
but fail to frame those thoughts in binding verse
which could translate perceptions of their brains
so other minds see clearly what they see
when we sing together in hall of dreams.
In every group of people one will speak
wordless thoughts all the others feel inside
to give them wings so they can fly together
through hostile wilderness from slough of despond
till they find shelter under the red rock
where they challenge supremacy of death.
When shaman is our prophet of desire,
foretelling effects our actions may cause,
they lead us dancing on long pilgrimage
as pied piper who plays enchanting tune
which lures us from our responsible duties
to dance around Bacchus on broken stone.
The frantic gibberings of shamans and clowns
express ethnopoetics through strange spells
to calculate virtue from victimhood
retained by pride of the crucified god
who teaches me how to play chess with death
so we can save our fellow citizens.
Lost in imagination of dream hope,
the charming witch of Belle Reve recounts how
each social savior lost chess game with Death
and fell from grace of wealth by gambling truth
to win eternal life through lottery
that no one can afford to play these days.
So when the Tree Man comes on twelve-horned buck
with silver harp that twangs enchanting tunes,
parading through vast maze of city streets,
will office workers leave stale cubicles
to follow Forest God in ring of stones
where we drink mushroom wine and dream all time.
The man who transforms into spotted owl
returns from Irminsul on whirling wings
to fly over battlefields of world war
and chant rune spells carved on tall Yggdrasil
recording history of how men contest
right to rule over fellow human beings.
Whatever truth is found in these dream songs,
composed by bearded wizard with three eyes,
can still be found in Mississippi River
where he jumped off high Minnesota Bridge
to wrestle river serpent for our souls
though he still leads us to the Promised Land.
When prophets of all national religions
gather in Colosseum on the Moon
to translate spells from ray-shimmering winds
they discuss ethnopoetics of lost souls
then print arcane songs in anthologies
that preserve visions of swift-flowing water.
What false ideologies of racial power
wait concealed hot inside strange sentences
to explode when triggered by mocking slurs
that detonate buried tensions of fear
tangled through our hearts in taut web of hopes
when we assume principles of respect?
We sit together in ruins of the church
where moonlight soaks into our beating hearts
which nourishes emotions to sprout wings
so we can fly with Icarus to Heaven
till reality zaps aspiring flight
and we fall laughing to indifferent Earth.
Now wearing white robe of the mute shaman,
I sing strange prophecies in numbered lines
to order swirling chaos of weird truth
that mirrors sunshine of the spotless mind
so we can see through telescope of faith
absolute perfection of the White Whole.
© Surazeus
2018 11 21
I cry the ancient voice of silent souls
who feel strange swirl of visions in their minds
but fail to frame those thoughts in binding verse
which could translate perceptions of their brains
so other minds see clearly what they see
when we sing together in hall of dreams.
In every group of people one will speak
wordless thoughts all the others feel inside
to give them wings so they can fly together
through hostile wilderness from slough of despond
till they find shelter under the red rock
where they challenge supremacy of death.
When shaman is our prophet of desire,
foretelling effects our actions may cause,
they lead us dancing on long pilgrimage
as pied piper who plays enchanting tune
which lures us from our responsible duties
to dance around Bacchus on broken stone.
The frantic gibberings of shamans and clowns
express ethnopoetics through strange spells
to calculate virtue from victimhood
retained by pride of the crucified god
who teaches me how to play chess with death
so we can save our fellow citizens.
Lost in imagination of dream hope,
the charming witch of Belle Reve recounts how
each social savior lost chess game with Death
and fell from grace of wealth by gambling truth
to win eternal life through lottery
that no one can afford to play these days.
So when the Tree Man comes on twelve-horned buck
with silver harp that twangs enchanting tunes,
parading through vast maze of city streets,
will office workers leave stale cubicles
to follow Forest God in ring of stones
where we drink mushroom wine and dream all time.
The man who transforms into spotted owl
returns from Irminsul on whirling wings
to fly over battlefields of world war
and chant rune spells carved on tall Yggdrasil
recording history of how men contest
right to rule over fellow human beings.
Whatever truth is found in these dream songs,
composed by bearded wizard with three eyes,
can still be found in Mississippi River
where he jumped off high Minnesota Bridge
to wrestle river serpent for our souls
though he still leads us to the Promised Land.
When prophets of all national religions
gather in Colosseum on the Moon
to translate spells from ray-shimmering winds
they discuss ethnopoetics of lost souls
then print arcane songs in anthologies
that preserve visions of swift-flowing water.
What false ideologies of racial power
wait concealed hot inside strange sentences
to explode when triggered by mocking slurs
that detonate buried tensions of fear
tangled through our hearts in taut web of hopes
when we assume principles of respect?
We sit together in ruins of the church
where moonlight soaks into our beating hearts
which nourishes emotions to sprout wings
so we can fly with Icarus to Heaven
till reality zaps aspiring flight
and we fall laughing to indifferent Earth.
Now wearing white robe of the mute shaman,
I sing strange prophecies in numbered lines
to order swirling chaos of weird truth
that mirrors sunshine of the spotless mind
so we can see through telescope of faith
absolute perfection of the White Whole.
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