Picture: Wandering by Pawel Kosior.
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On a journey I must go,
Into the land I do not know.
On a journey I must go,
Into the land I do not know.
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Every wound is self-inflicted:
I am the hilt and the blade.
Every wind can be harnessed:
I am the sun and the rain.
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Go and let the sucklings starve,
For owls and foxes know the path.
Mirrors of purple and green
Wean the saints
Of the woods.
With dew and moonlight,
They make a feast;
With leaf and bug,
They hold a gathering.
In the early morning,
Their palms facing up,
They tickle the breath
Of all creatures under the sun.
“The dawn is done,” they say.
“The bone is bond,” they pray.
And holy smoke dances at their feet
To the steady rythm of their heartbeat.
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“My child, reborn,
Spill that giant pond
Over rock, moor and meadow;
Shake a drizzle off the heavens;
Paint minerals under the blankets of the earth;
Scream fire from your gut;
Whistle a hurricane!
Sharp and sweet,
So everything can be started all over again
From the debris and the ashes
Of the old…”
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None of it is left,
Not even a memory.
Memory of what?
Silence lingers softly
Among all beings in the sea of consciousness.
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On a journey I must go,
Into the land I do not know.
On a journey I must go,
Into the land I do not know.
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Herons
Sunshower 