Be Not That Breeze.
Are you the gentle breeze that,
Wafting timidly o’er the arid lands,
Bring with it the bounteous seeds
Of life, scattering them far and wide
Over barren plains and greying crags,
Altering the countenance of what we
Perceived originally to be a reminder
Of the infertility of Man’s endeavours?
Are you the breeze that brings with it
The clouds of dreaminess that darken
At the sight of the lifeless landscape
And then, in zestful fury, rain down
Upon it the droplets of metamorphosis
Painting in vivid, bright colours the
Banners of exuberance and plenty?
Are you the breeze that can bear not
The sight of an expanse that, Dreadful
To the eye, disturbs the peaceful mien
Of the Universe, that otherwise seems
To exist for eternity, preserved, as if
It were an artist’s masterpiece hidden
Away from the ravages of time, that its
Beauty may never dilute, that aesthetics
Mayn’t suffer the consequences of life?
Are you the breeze that would cover the
Dust of the soil with the balm of grass,
Resurrect the diseased, deceased Cypress
And fill its underworked, empty boughs
With the fragrant tinctures of nectar and
Fruit, forcing its hard, proud posture to
Adopt a more humble stance, bowing in
Servitude to the pleasures of reproduction,
Trapping it in the sphere of temporality?
Saith the Wise: Be not that breeze.
The dusty soil that you would see covered
In the cloak of refreshing greenery, that
Dust is made of particles of Truth that,
Accumulated over eons of experiencing
Reality with Nature as its supreme Goddess,
Know intimately the innermost machinations
of the Cosmos. The terror one feels when
Exposed to the emptiness of its physiognomy
Is akin to the shudder that travels down his
Spine when Man stares out into light years
Of space and realizes the vast extent of utter
Nothingness that surrounds him. It is the yelp
Of a terrified beast that realizes it has nothing
To fall back upon, that no help is forthcoming.
You wish to cover the soil of Truthfulness
With the grass of Faith, seeking to calm
Your frayed nerves with the pleasurable
Visage of botanical constructs, dismissing
From the eye-line the uncomfortable tale
That undulates before one’s eyes if only
One wishes to see it. Faith prevents sight.
The Cypress that you would see covered
In fruits and flowers is the Tree of Wisdom,
Made hard and proud by ages of difficult
Lessons, learnt as it inevitably is by all who
Live long enough and refrain from shutting
Their eyes to the world at the first sign of
Danger. It was barren because it wished to
Impart to whosoever would behold it, wisdom
Unencumbered, unburdened, unweighted
By unnecessary embellishments, justifications,
Interpretations and unwarranted dilutions.
It stood erect, proud, in the face of Time,
Because it knew with equitable certainty
That all it possessed within itself contained
No single particle of falsification, untruth,
Or even a minor misrepresentation. That
Tree of Wisdom thou wouldst now see
Laden with the flora of Love. Love, that
Bane of the thirst for greatness, for pride,
For transcendence, the enemy that turns
Virtue into vice, vice into virtue. The boughs
That withstood centuries of strenuous and
Relentless examinations without once letting
Its structure being compromised, today bows
Lowly as a common slave towards the ground
Weighed down by the burdens that the existence
Of Love necessitates. Love, too prevents sight.
Saith the Wise: Be not that breeze.
Be instead the Tempest that, howling with the
Ferocity of a soul in eternal torment, roars
Through the landscape, dispersing before itself
The reverie inducing clouds, allowing them only
In their haste to send down a smattering of
Thunderbolts that wield woe and destruction
On any frail being trying to stake its claim on a
Fragment of existence. Be the Tempest that
Rips the grass from its very roots and sends it
Scurrying into the horizon with such fervour
That it will never return again to these lands.
Be the Tempest that tears from the branches
Of the Cypress every last petal of naïveté that
Stained the expression of weather beaten wisdom.
Lay bare the crags, untether the dust, unfetter
The boughs, unveil the skies. Unleash, O most
Terrible of creations, all the terror that resides
Within you, and let it wreak havoc on whatever
It encounters. No frail deceptions or beautiful
Lies are built on foundations strong enough
To survive its wrath. Truth and Wisdom need
No protecting, and let all else fall away.
A single, fleeting glimpse of the true Nature
Of the Universe contains more beauty in that
Moment of nakedness than a lifetime of Love
Or Faith could place at your disposal. Fear not
Truth, rather be awestruck by its magnificence,
For Truth alone brings sight.
And so saith the Wise:
Be not that Breeze, But be the Tempest.
Are you the gentle breeze that,
Wafting timidly o’er the arid lands,
Bring with it the bounteous seeds
Of life, scattering them far and wide
Over barren plains and greying crags,
Altering the countenance of what we
Perceived originally to be a reminder
Of the infertility of Man’s endeavours?
Are you the breeze that brings with it
The clouds of dreaminess that darken
At the sight of the lifeless landscape
And then, in zestful fury, rain down
Upon it the droplets of metamorphosis
Painting in vivid, bright colours the
Banners of exuberance and plenty?
Are you the breeze that can bear not
The sight of an expanse that, Dreadful
To the eye, disturbs the peaceful mien
Of the Universe, that otherwise seems
To exist for eternity, preserved, as if
It were an artist’s masterpiece hidden
Away from the ravages of time, that its
Beauty may never dilute, that aesthetics
Mayn’t suffer the consequences of life?
Are you the breeze that would cover the
Dust of the soil with the balm of grass,
Resurrect the diseased, deceased Cypress
And fill its underworked, empty boughs
With the fragrant tinctures of nectar and
Fruit, forcing its hard, proud posture to
Adopt a more humble stance, bowing in
Servitude to the pleasures of reproduction,
Trapping it in the sphere of temporality?
Saith the Wise: Be not that breeze.
The dusty soil that you would see covered
In the cloak of refreshing greenery, that
Dust is made of particles of Truth that,
Accumulated over eons of experiencing
Reality with Nature as its supreme Goddess,
Know intimately the innermost machinations
of the Cosmos. The terror one feels when
Exposed to the emptiness of its physiognomy
Is akin to the shudder that travels down his
Spine when Man stares out into light years
Of space and realizes the vast extent of utter
Nothingness that surrounds him. It is the yelp
Of a terrified beast that realizes it has nothing
To fall back upon, that no help is forthcoming.
You wish to cover the soil of Truthfulness
With the grass of Faith, seeking to calm
Your frayed nerves with the pleasurable
Visage of botanical constructs, dismissing
From the eye-line the uncomfortable tale
That undulates before one’s eyes if only
One wishes to see it. Faith prevents sight.
The Cypress that you would see covered
In fruits and flowers is the Tree of Wisdom,
Made hard and proud by ages of difficult
Lessons, learnt as it inevitably is by all who
Live long enough and refrain from shutting
Their eyes to the world at the first sign of
Danger. It was barren because it wished to
Impart to whosoever would behold it, wisdom
Unencumbered, unburdened, unweighted
By unnecessary embellishments, justifications,
Interpretations and unwarranted dilutions.
It stood erect, proud, in the face of Time,
Because it knew with equitable certainty
That all it possessed within itself contained
No single particle of falsification, untruth,
Or even a minor misrepresentation. That
Tree of Wisdom thou wouldst now see
Laden with the flora of Love. Love, that
Bane of the thirst for greatness, for pride,
For transcendence, the enemy that turns
Virtue into vice, vice into virtue. The boughs
That withstood centuries of strenuous and
Relentless examinations without once letting
Its structure being compromised, today bows
Lowly as a common slave towards the ground
Weighed down by the burdens that the existence
Of Love necessitates. Love, too prevents sight.
Saith the Wise: Be not that breeze.
Be instead the Tempest that, howling with the
Ferocity of a soul in eternal torment, roars
Through the landscape, dispersing before itself
The reverie inducing clouds, allowing them only
In their haste to send down a smattering of
Thunderbolts that wield woe and destruction
On any frail being trying to stake its claim on a
Fragment of existence. Be the Tempest that
Rips the grass from its very roots and sends it
Scurrying into the horizon with such fervour
That it will never return again to these lands.
Be the Tempest that tears from the branches
Of the Cypress every last petal of naïveté that
Stained the expression of weather beaten wisdom.
Lay bare the crags, untether the dust, unfetter
The boughs, unveil the skies. Unleash, O most
Terrible of creations, all the terror that resides
Within you, and let it wreak havoc on whatever
It encounters. No frail deceptions or beautiful
Lies are built on foundations strong enough
To survive its wrath. Truth and Wisdom need
No protecting, and let all else fall away.
A single, fleeting glimpse of the true Nature
Of the Universe contains more beauty in that
Moment of nakedness than a lifetime of Love
Or Faith could place at your disposal. Fear not
Truth, rather be awestruck by its magnificence,
For Truth alone brings sight.
And so saith the Wise:
Be not that Breeze, But be the Tempest.
