Human Lives Are Strange © Surazeus 2023 09 26 Moonflowers bloom from wet grave of my brain whiter than mist creeping in from the sea, so I become snow-winged owl of the moon so I can find you by the alder tree waiting for someone to bring you sweet fruit, though I vanish in sad tune of the flute. I row my river boat in misty woods, winding around hills of whispering oaks, yet I find in glowing clouds no huge gods, except for bearded seers in wolf-skin cloaks who vanish in shadows of faceless hope while I gasp for breath climbing a steep slope. Blue river reflects strange face in the sky who seems to mimic everything I do, so I ask girl by the alder tree why human lives are strange as the river flow, but she just gives me ripe apple to eat, so I translate riddles unseen birds tweet. Our tattered clothes get wet from morning dew as we stroll laughing among hyacinth, then honey bees reveal which cosmic clue will guide our quest through endless labyrinth, till we grow weary from our need to roam and choose shady grove to build our new home. Each bright morning, after we sing with larks, we gather from misty woods food to eat, then sit on river shore to watch tall storks discuss how time flows with restless heartbeat in timeless harmony of river song, then analyze process of right and wrong. Ten thousand years we live on river shores, tending gardens with hands that understand how shadow of death haunts half-open doors, then wander on when others steal our land, so we build great empires that rise and fall till nothing is left but some crumbling wall. Gazing at satellite photos of Earth, I trace journeys my ancestors once took along strange rivers where mothers gave birth, till ancient stories in our holy book record names of their ghosts vague in my brain, so I laugh with angst in the pouring rain. So we can continue tale of our genes, which incarnate in children we create, we map our own journey in time machines which we drive down crowded highways of fate in world city of Pandemonium through which I dream life in Elysium.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Tuesday, September 26, 2023
Human Lives Are Strange
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