harafish’s cauldron

Slowly, it spreads its wings.
It seems to challenge the wind,
Or rather, to prepare for a flight.

The West wind comes,
Caresses the little leaf,
and sings to it a sweet lullaby.

The leaf remains anchored, unbending.
Resisting the wind,
It stands with pride.

But time turns everything mellow.
As our little leaf turns yellow,
it learns to let go.

It sways to the tune of the whistling wind.

The flame, which was not flame at all
but the devil’s tongue,
lapped the wood,
Which was not wood anymore,
but his limbs.

I heard the crackling sound…
His groan of agony.
His anguished cry.
The sound of breaking bones and screams,
drowned in the sea of fire.

I smelled the burning flesh.
Not appalling like I thought it would.
I closed my eyes,
Inhaling the not-so fetid odor.

After a while of basking in this delight.
I looked at him, or rather,
of what remained of him.
His soul.
Black as the pit of the abyss.

I am enchanted with those two deep pools,
Like quicksand,
Pulling me into their depths.

His lips, like apples that have just been plucked,
Or decade-old cherry wine,
Inviting and intoxicating.

I will lay down the world at his feet,
I smile at the thought.
I caught his smile,

And when I come to the threshold of eternity
The dying flame of life strips it of its hideous form
The ember casts its dancing light to make it a
ghostly shadow.
Yet, it is still formidable in the fading light of my eyes

The popping went on and on
Leaves turned yellow
And yellow turned green.
Trees withered and lived again.

Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide?
And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech?

The aggrieved and the injured say, “Beauty is kind and gentle.
Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us.”
And the passionate say, “Nay, beauty is a thing of might and dread.
Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us.”

The tired and the weary say, “Beauty is of soft whisperings. She speaks in our spirit.
Her voice yields to our silences like a faint light that quivers in fear of the shadow.”
But the restless say, “We have heard her shouting among the mountains,
And with her cries came the sound of hoofs, and the beating of wings and the roaring of lions.”

At night the watchmen of the city say, “Beauty shall rise with the dawn from the east.”
And at noontide the toilers and the wayfarers say,
“We have seen her leaning over the earth from the windows of the sunset.”

In winter say the snow-bound, “She shall come with the spring leaping upon the hills.”
And in the summer heat the reapers say,
“We have seen her dancing with the autumn leaves,
and we saw a drift of snow in her hair.”
All these things have you said of beauty,
Yet in truth you spoke not of her but of needs unsatisfied,
And beauty is not a need but an ecstasy.
It is not a mouth thirsting nor an empty hand stretched forth,
But rather a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted.

It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear,
But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears.
It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw,
But rather a garden for ever in bloom and a flock of angels for ever in flight.

These lines from Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself is one of my favorite lines taken from a literary piece. It’s probably because Whitman is not referring to himself alone, but rather to the universal self, the hidden “we” beneath the superficial “I”. It is as if Whitman speaks in behalf of us all (well, that’s probably the role of all poets, to come in contact with the innermost and universal self and announce the tidings to the insensitive world).

Going back to the contradicting selves within me/us, I just want to cite myself as a living proof that we come to witness the contradictions within in the span of a week, a day, an hour, a minute, or even in a split of a second. Last time, I was talking about hope like it is something dark and evil. Well, I realized sooner after that that hope is a mana –a heavenly food that feeds my soul with light in one of the most gloomy days of my life.

“Death is before me today:
Like the recovery of a sick man,
Like going forth into a garden after sickness.
Death is before me today:
Like the odor of myrrh,
Like sitting under a sail in a good wind.
Death is before me today:
Like the course of a stream,
Like the return of a man from the war-galley to his house.
Death is before me today:
Like the home that a man longs to see,
After many years spent as a captive.”

That forgotten poet understood her gifts. My sister has a function to perform, even as I do. The Endless have their responsibilities.
I have responsibilities.
I walk by her side, and the darkness lifts from my soul. I walk with her, and I hear the gentle beating of mighty wings…