Dream About Rivers © Surazeus 2024 12 24 Though I dream about rivers every day, the way they glisten in light of the sun as they wind among hills and across plains, flowing from mountain snow to the wild sea, I have not spent this life time on their shores as much as I want to dwell in their glow. From space of my house on the oak-wood hill, within four walls of unorthodox insight, I hear mercurial song of the wild rivers pulse in harmony with blood in my veins that echoes voices of the ancient dead who walked along those rivers long ago. I am not disappointed by my fate, for I created mine with every choice that I performed from vision of desire which I projected at the natural world as light to guide my quest beyond the garden which nurtures fragile body of my soul. Yet light-masked phantom of my nameless self still walks along the lush tree-clustered shores of ten thousand rivers around the world where my ancestors woke from starry dream to find their name inside the fractured stone that still glows in neural net of my brain. If I heed siren cry of river nymphs, which I hear soft as subtle undertone to humming machinery of world commerce, I may escape from station of my duty and wander without care for wealth or fame, lost forever along the shining river. Since my ancestors, searching for their names, have explored the long course of countless rivers, mapping them in dream landscape of my brain, the modern names we use to signify process of their flow honor brave explorers who embodied their energy through love. The gods and nymphs recorded in old myths still haunt those rivers that now bear their names, which seals consequence of dramatic lives in legends that recount their tragedies, though we forget fierce passion of their hopes as we relive them now in our own plays. As child of the river in human form, I am the radiant phantom of its water encased in bounds of fiber-woven flesh that pulses with weird rhythm its flow, so I preserve the river in my heart when I translate its beat to sentient verse.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Orpheus stares at the river where the Maenads threw his head which sings its beat to sentient verse which prophesy the rise and fall of empires for ten thousand years.
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