Moon

Whoever spouts darkness

has an affinity for the Light.

Death is a resemblance,

as dusk retains the Dawn

in its resilient hatred,

like a glowering coal who dies

slow and resigned when it lets go of

what has followed it, and is thus overcome

by the sweeping abyss.

Have you known the canyon? cloaked,

in blindness clutching,

the descent as terrifying

as any taste of what's to come

should reasonably be.

It is only as one enters

into the hush and ominous promise

of the slowly warming tunnels,

approaching the great, bubbling Heart

at the centre of the Earth—

Here, it is all

a wet brow, silence, and pain:

the relinquishment of folly.

You are grown into a new man,

son, you ancient fool.

As I return into the blistering, icy World

of stranger tales, stranger tales told,

I run, I skip my way

into resilience

unfolding, a reliant individual,

firm for, in his resolve

not to sway from the Path,

though it winds and is wild

and unkind to all who pass.

So the trees form another Way,

sprouting to overlook this place,

this Pathway I walk

into the presence of the ghost of the Sun: old Moon,

you know me, I know you,

let us share in this partaking,

this duality, this Vision

rich, like a story:

a fatalist and a romantic

wed beneath the Stars,

their antagonism dissolved

in the heat and thaw of tender Light.

09/18-19/2016

Richmond

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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020

atazargarof@gmail.com

BC, Canada