The Word

The word was spoken long ago. Today.
Great forests rose attentively. Clouds parted.
Wild herds listened. Rivers explained.

Upon the nightdark riddled face,
Its ripe blade traced a line of blood.
Rejoiced the sun, shy pebble in a pond.

Came the race of man, raw seed across the land,
Bittersown and bright. Rockingcradle murmur,
Sprouted motherhands, lullaby of careworn furrows.

The learned say it is a dream. Not remembered,
But believed. Unenlightened chaff. Cathedral of doubt.
Prayers. Incense. Highpriests in cunning vestments.

The believers say it must be learned, but their lessons
Are incomplete. Cracks in the chalice. Bats in the belfry.
Backstabbed lustful gluttons. Soiled, bended knees.

Sorrowful in labor, their joy a bell hollowpealing,
They grow brittle in the end. Dry, unmarrowed bones.
The learned believing. The believers far from home.

In the restless wind, an infant cries. Stardust.
Calls out the granite shore, beseeches molten night.
The word answers. A thousand songs take flight.

January 6, 2006

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