Faces We Lost In War © Surazeus 2024 12 16 Those people who lose their faces in war wear masks of angels when they attend church, so I stand by the window of long years, and, with light of the angel in the sky, embrace map of the world no one can see that yields gardens where the dead go to sing. Tall maples on the ever-rolling hills still blaze crimson to show the empire dies with men who oppress people with their greed, releasing traumatized victims from fear so they can gather in silent snowfall and pretend nothing bad ever occurred. Young wife of Gabriel, older than the moon, cleans vast Cave of Illusions where they live, cooking meals of apples for him to eat while he records clear divine messages God wants him to relate with golden runes to prophets who guide kings on the right path. Each swan that rises from lake of lost dreams bears soul of one person killed in some war humans are always fighting to control their national narrative which defines the highest values of that hungry tribe who claim this land they conquered as their own. Sitting with pearl keys on the ocean shore, I try to decipher grammar of stones so I can translate sentences of waves to clever riddles only children solve because words I choose to describe the world reveal the type of character I am. I am not responsible for the hills for without my permission the trees grow and bloom with fruit that anyone can eat, and birds playfully fly in whistling light to prove they need no meaning to exist, yet ghosts of my dead friends scream in the mist. I build new house from carved mahogany to shelter lonely refugees from war who wander without purpose of false faith in city of mirrors to buy new dreams that fail to replace those lost in the war based on letters that conceal agony. I cast bright threads of psychic energy from dancing fingers of conceptual faith to weave new world map of hope from our dreams that we make real with how we play our roles to build city of mirrors with our eyes so we can find faces we lost in war.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Orpheus gathers faces of the dead killed in ten thousand years of wars and hangs them all in the Museum of Dead Gods where the Many-Faced God gazes at each one with love.
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