They had on display vast cartographies of the intellect,
vistas of the open realms of Knowledge,
portals to the Divine
threaded with errors, but
I presume the idea is that
with enough access to enough,
one might indeed bring oneself closer
to that Truth of truths,
that central Law or Principle
of all the Universe, proclaimed
to none save the learned or the wise
or those listening, with wide-open eyes,
to that golden Egg at the very Heart of the Cosmos,
throbbing with all Love, all Life,
ripe for the picking
in this life. The library was vaulted
long ago. I presume, also, that it was burned
to the floor by the gods,
they having realized that it was too
much for the petty scrawls of human progress
to ever hope to unravel or rival,
ever hope to match or break
open to draw sustenance from
the fluid Light at its Core, liquid
Life, Love like a river
that springs from the Sea,
against all ties, all severances,
to make it home to the Sky. 


I am still elementary. 
I am not cutting or exact. 
What I mean to say is this,
that like the Tablets of Bahá'u'lláh
washed off in the Tigris
after tearful Revelation; like
the Commentaries of the Báb
lost either to Time, or withheld thereby;
like the Library of Alexandria;
like every manuscript torn, charred or discarded;
like every black book at the floor of the World,
every tome of civilization
engulfed by millennia, we have been bereft of
sacred Knowledge or poor tries,
in either case deprived of something
either way worthwhile,
but perhaps it wasn't time,
not now nor yet, for our eyes
to see, to read, glean from their letters
the meaning of things. 

West Vancouver
after Harmaeus Mora's Apocrypha

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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2018


BC, Canada