The Seers and Mystics have gathered
around the Poet to speak
to the Most High which came from
the desert with a dagger.
We have this story to tell you now:
He is walking in a forest with somebody
and is told to be quiet
and the demon appears; it shifts,
bends its shapes
from the green bushes into reality.
Then he has suddenly moved his home
from one place to another.
The demon follows after, finds him
in the city streets
They fight - he refute the encodes.
Like tidal waves; like typhoons
do they collide into each -
Like tsunamis, like earthquakes
It is like a sound
somebody whispered once.
It fears the cage; he is but a shú to it
It is not your concern
but it wants it to be what it's not
there for sharp fangs
into the softness is it churned.
By an accident was it created;
It is like a flower
for only in the struggle is it found
in the Stalemate
is toiled for fertile what grows.
Neither is the winner or loser
"Thou shalt not"
he writes on its forehead
for the threshold
"Fuck You Too" it writes on theirs.
It is the last day of creations
It is the Hearth of it
which moves the mountains
they protect it; guard it
It is in the House of Belongings.
Now Oh High One - the story ends
There for a scimitar
it swings, like a djinn in a bottle
but hits a teardrop
For seals were writ as wards. |