Here our faces
find the clay which we had formed, when born amongst the sand and sea, we had crawled
on trembling lips upon these temples steps to find how very free, our
deliverance could be.
Here where we were never formed; and weeping children, so forlorn, had placed their drops upon the ancient web, where Indra had beheld the ebbing oceans of our naked selves, as a sunshaft through a broken column
Here, where shadows
paint the image of a page, and fling their flicker dance across the curtains of
our age; as the ceremony of the candleshrine bathes our roots in sunken light,
and the breath of incense smoke writes the pathway of our flight.
Here these
molten hands of clay seep back into the mothswept day; into splattered sunshine
musk that dances in mosaic masks of darkness through the dusk, where threads of
stillness intersect, and shafts of sunlight do reflect.
Here the golems
in the stone pavilion quench the silence of their secret stillness; gathering a
sentence out of this molten mystic mess to stare with open mouths of music into
the heart of the mosaic; amongst the vapours and the desert drapers of the ancient
Tree of Life, hung in tapestries around the columns of our former strife; and
the pregnant earth is drenched in rain.
Here the origin
of Sun Gods are raised in the birth of Raja’s flame; as silken Persian music
empties out our soul and name; and only in the eye of every pupil is the truth
both found so still, as it is scattered through the solar well; and the carving
of a laughing legend on the wall tells of Nothing in the End…as All.
Here the streams
of every ancient heart string flood into the blood of everything, and separate
sides collide like river banks of diamond gold, spilling through these folds of
illusionary skin into the temple of within, where lanterns and infernos dance
with stars and supernovas; and the summit of our scattered worth explodes into
the mirth of multifoliate inventions, breathing from the heart pavilion centre
into infinite dimensions.
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