Quiet. Only the unheard voice of art – trembling like a golden plate, like a sword piercing the sky, like the unsung tears, bursting from the depths. I picked up its tune – simplistic, primal, at times insultingly earthy, like a baby’s cry and the shouts of men who act in the world, women wailing, beasts roaring.
I asked myself – is that the lullaby that was sung to me as a child, is that the one that used to put my own children to sleep? In this lifetime, and the previous, and all the other ones before it? Yes, that is the One. Eons ago I danced to it in a land now forgotten, and it spoke of things that were so near to me then, just as they are near to me now. The deep breath of life, eyes wide open, arms trembling, a soul in disbelief – experiencing, as it were, the play of God.
Sweet tune, immutable, I watch your shores closely, intently, ad infinitum. Wave after wave your ocean births, indistinguishable, and yet each of them – unique. The stories you have told, told again and then repeated endlessly – they are my mother’s milk, and yet you tell them differently every time – not in repetition, but rhyme.
I have been a hero in Your stories. And I acted, as I believed that I was right, moving at great speed, but my wings became heavy with impressions from your world. Memories abundant, knowledge, and, crucially, inevitably – fear. Unable to fly, I crawled. When weakness prevailed, I hurt others and myself. Then I suffered from the same old hurt, reflected in the mirror of Truth.
Now I know. It is time to follow the tune, growing ever louder, grander, as destinies become ever larger, more and more difficult, as the spirit of Man rises.
It is time to follow it to its source and there, at the gates of the Lord, to ride along His great walls, sword in the air, and demand that He show Himself. Remove the hot-while light that hides You, calm the glow of your golden towers so I can see You.