A Garden Walk

I. O oppression of Sky, sloping pavement, petty pebbles 'on the sidewalk like a thousand broken Moons. O cracks in the pavement like veins, O street-lamps magnificent, eternal, speaking with soft Light as gold as the Sun, but unperturbed and resurrecting. O World, how you defy description, and yet invite such connections to be made that I see Unity, no more, in your every fragrant part.

O darkness of the neighbourhood inviting Light, tomorrow's sweeping Dawn to take you and burn with the agony of change, no story spoken, but a few shall have it said in tongues the same.

II. Here stands, puncturing out from under the Earth, the very old seed of a nascent Tree now fully grown, I think. It is an outstretched palm toward God, beckoning rain to be released, to be delivered into its Soul. It is inseparably combined with the Earth and the grass, it is pure, it is kindly and radiant in its immaculate filth. It is a Tree of great virtue because it asks, always, and receives therefore not only rain, but the Sun, in all her brilliant constancy, her ecstatic radiance. It is a message and a sign. It is mine own both to bear and become a Tree of great virtue myself, remade into the product of the earnest wishes and sublime resurrections of a thousand gods. It is enshrined within the everlasting Heart of Time, like forever; past and future wedded together beneath the Stars and the Sky, becoming One: Here it is.

III. O burning streetlamp brilliant, illuminating the World, if thou wast only not obstructed in thy Light-shining with fire by the Trees, whose littering leaves thou dost ignite, aflame and angry, I presume, at thy restrictions, thy probations, held back from destiny like a bastard. O streetlamp, burning brilliant, illuminating, I feel a part of you, I feel as though I understand you, your concealed misery, outlasting in the guise of purest fury, unsullied by pain, but you see, you know it does not exist, that there is no rage in this World that is not born of agony such as ours. You know this. I know this when I see you as I see myself, strangled, entangled within the Trees, poor things only trying to embrace me and together we are blazing gods, without them I'd be a damned thing, damned to oblivion and isolation, forsaken to an Eternity and no one with which to share its prevalent fruits, both golden and allowed.

10/04/2016 Richmond after Squalor Victoria

  • patreon_logo_black
  • Instagram - Black Circle

Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020

atazargarof@gmail.com

BC, Canada