The next step,
took his legs, a virulent flash,
The blinding
pain, encompassed his gaze within
Spinning
around, dancing in zeal, a gash
Flowing red,
viscous from when it was thin;
The sight
down, he saw, the glassy stone,
Jagged and
rigid, unyielding and brazen
For the harm,
saw it no reason to moan,
Weathered was
it, to cut unaware men.
Strewn across,
the undulating scene of stones,
Hindered
around, he looked for harmless ways,
The prickly
tops, surmounting the archaic cones,
More cuts, the
hurt, thoughts for him to faze,
A gust of
wind, a vortex violent, arose atop
The obstinate
surface, now the seeming bullets clash
Tumultuously,
the serene chaos, the dance lop,
Rain unto, now
withered into dunes they mash.
In waning
amazement, upon a healed foot, walks
He, dune after
dune, raises and falls.
With a dune
beneath, a figure with locks
Wild,
untethered, frail stands he, distraught with galls.
The wraith of
sand, the ethereal ancient beast
Wise and
timeless, calls him upon,
To him, offers
the wise, a luscious feast
Of time, into
which, he was now born.
Asks he thus,
“Ancient one, upon the lands
Gaze I,
unbeknownst to me, for what I should see.
The sands I
feel, warm though slip through my hands,
The truth of
these shores, learn I through thee.”
The wraith,
wordless, engulfed his thoughts,
View the far
distances, through which he shall see
His time, the
stream which blooms and which rots
Into expanses,
time flows, ceased to be free.
“The stream
meanders, untouched and pristine,
Not a grain,
not the stones, not the shores pour
Into, pulling
away, or muddling its sheen
None within,
or around, calming its mighty roar.
Dawns in me,
of the ceaseless flow, devout, infinite,
Pouring itself
into the void, mysterious and dark.
Though
grandiose, what story am I to knit
When my
senses, is now but a lark?”
Stared into
the abyss, the wraith, unbound
By words,
dripping through it, without a thought,
His thoughts,
the pressing words, a heaping mound,
Prodding
the wraith, answers to it wrought.
A
wave, tall, drowns the shores, the stream,
The
man fluid, now flowing calm and serene,
Teases
him visions, the astral story of time.
The
waters from where begotten, him to ween,
Where
from, where to, to him it to mime.
A
past, unearthed, sees he his life.
To
him, his past, a period forgotten since,
Memories
of time, unfettered, a melodious fife,
Like
the water, contained in, cannot rinse.
A
present, unearthed, sees he his self.
To
him, the present, a mirror upon which,
Reflects
he, projecting a giant, a dwarf and an elf,
All
he, his dreams, lustrous and rich.
A
future, unearthed, sees he a dark void.
To
him, the future, featureless and grey,
Sees
he none, what he yearns, what to avoid,
The
fife of his past, sees, at the end of his fray.
Blinks,
focuses, stands the wraith, as before,
Puzzles
he, “Know I not, of the truths foretold,
I
saw, the visions, moments of my lore.
The
latter lore, told me of my start,
My
tunes, my days, my nights and my ways.
My
living, of which some are sweet, bitter and tart,
Blinding
once, my lore felt devoid of rays.
Ignorant,
felt I, darkened and blotted by
The
palette, where upon, laid the colours mine,
Thought
I to vigour, not that they’d wry.
Making
unseen, the tails that the heads dine.”
Asked
he again, “The cycle of time profound
Realized
I, and yet, I stand, devour
The
tail, as the head. I acquiesce unbound,
And
am still solid, should dissolve like the hour.”
Still
unhinged, he sought his fate, looked on
Still,
the wraith, into the meandering stream.
Gone,
without a trace, like the dusk from one dawn,
Befuddling
him, unable to let out even a faint scream.
A
blurring sight, cleared into the known,
The
rocks, stones, rigid through time, weathered.
Within
the rocks, the sands had grown,
Unmoving
and quiet, not even the wind heard.
“My
hurt felt I, upon the bloody graze,
Never
the warmth, once the sanded shores,
Each
bend, each trough and each peak a maze
Flowing
through time, with their infinite doors.”
The next step,
took his legs, a virulent flash,
The blinding
pain, encompassed his gaze within
Quietened and
calm, healing in zeal, a gash
Flowing red,
yet the pleasure and pain was akin.
- Victor Van Volkner
Background of the poem
This poem, to me, represents how we, as humans, view the trials and tribulations of life. While we realise that time flows only in one direction, we don't often see it in that direction. Often clinging onto the past, the veritable dramas that unfold in our lives are all that we see, ignoring the happier moments that define who we are, in equal proportion to the more dramatic moments. This is about such a man, who is shown that his time includes both of these, and he needs to learn to take both with equal zeal and see the best of both. I'll hope that this intention of mine reaches someone reading the poem.
Background of the poem
This poem, to me, represents how we, as humans, view the trials and tribulations of life. While we realise that time flows only in one direction, we don't often see it in that direction. Often clinging onto the past, the veritable dramas that unfold in our lives are all that we see, ignoring the happier moments that define who we are, in equal proportion to the more dramatic moments. This is about such a man, who is shown that his time includes both of these, and he needs to learn to take both with equal zeal and see the best of both. I'll hope that this intention of mine reaches someone reading the poem.
