10-07-2015, 01:41 AM
COVERED IN BOILS
Here, the flower, waiting for the inevitable fall:
does he not feel the warm hands of the gardener,
protecting him from the cold?
Here, pillars, waiting for the inevitable climbing,
clawing, gnawing of the vines -- pillars of white stone,
walls of grey stone, and reliefs of saints and roses:
do they not feel the skilled hands of the gardener,
cutting away the branches?
Here, the painted glass, waiting for the inevitable wind:
does she not feel the loving, longing eyes of the gardener,
watching her from the distance? learning from her pictures,
her wordless poetry, her gentle morning dance of light and color?
Does she ignore the gardener's concern,
ever present, ever careful?
Or is there only the whirlwind, the inevitable whirlwind:
the voice of God, hidden behind a spectacle of lightning
and a mystery play of the flood?
The whirlwind, he is soft. The whirlwind, he is a whisper.
The whirlwind, he is the opened eye, the empty heart,
and when he comes, so the circle will go,
so all the true concerns of the gardener,
all the material memories locked behind the ragged cottage,
all these will be swept away, lost, then longed for and looked for again,
and his current business will be forgotten.
Such is the voice of God. Such is the concern of the flower,
the pillars and walls, the painted glass, the eternal
yet not eternally young temple. Such is the plague,
the numbed motive.
Here I am, running, walking, limping,
all according to the black and yellow lanes of the modern road
coursing against the river, the high flying cloud
and the deep flowing spring, all leading unto the city,
unto the false astrolabe, the eternally shooting star,
the vision of absolute death. And who holds the gadfly's knife?
whose faith is it that treats even the ugliest flower,
the lowliest stone, the sharpest beam of blindness
as a revelation? who keeps to the hope of the void
as the love of the final, the fount of eternal youth?
Not I, I tell you, not this I
but the congregation, the temple's founders,
the fickle spirits of the gardener and his brothers,
his sisters, his wives and children,
his mothers and fathers--
So kill them all. Consult the prophets
and swim in the waters; reject the city
and run across the fields. What is faith
if it has grown rotten? Let the stained glass
shiver and break. Remember,
even the whirlwind will be absent:
if it wasn't, it wouldn't be.
Such is the voice of God.
Here, the flower, waiting for the inevitable fall:
does he not feel the warm hands of the gardener,
protecting him from the cold?
Here, pillars, waiting for the inevitable climbing,
clawing, gnawing of the vines -- pillars of white stone,
walls of grey stone, and reliefs of saints and roses:
do they not feel the skilled hands of the gardener,
cutting away the branches?
Here, the painted glass, waiting for the inevitable wind:
does she not feel the loving, longing eyes of the gardener,
watching her from the distance? learning from her pictures,
her wordless poetry, her gentle morning dance of light and color?
Does she ignore the gardener's concern,
ever present, ever careful?
Or is there only the whirlwind, the inevitable whirlwind:
the voice of God, hidden behind a spectacle of lightning
and a mystery play of the flood?
The whirlwind, he is soft. The whirlwind, he is a whisper.
The whirlwind, he is the opened eye, the empty heart,
and when he comes, so the circle will go,
so all the true concerns of the gardener,
all the material memories locked behind the ragged cottage,
all these will be swept away, lost, then longed for and looked for again,
and his current business will be forgotten.
Such is the voice of God. Such is the concern of the flower,
the pillars and walls, the painted glass, the eternal
yet not eternally young temple. Such is the plague,
the numbed motive.
Here I am, running, walking, limping,
all according to the black and yellow lanes of the modern road
coursing against the river, the high flying cloud
and the deep flowing spring, all leading unto the city,
unto the false astrolabe, the eternally shooting star,
the vision of absolute death. And who holds the gadfly's knife?
whose faith is it that treats even the ugliest flower,
the lowliest stone, the sharpest beam of blindness
as a revelation? who keeps to the hope of the void
as the love of the final, the fount of eternal youth?
Not I, I tell you, not this I
but the congregation, the temple's founders,
the fickle spirits of the gardener and his brothers,
his sisters, his wives and children,
his mothers and fathers--
So kill them all. Consult the prophets
and swim in the waters; reject the city
and run across the fields. What is faith
if it has grown rotten? Let the stained glass
shiver and break. Remember,
even the whirlwind will be absent:
if it wasn't, it wouldn't be.
Such is the voice of God.
