It took tears to wring showers of thankfulness, blight to harvest granaries of generosity. In those eyes of suffering, the blind man momentarily found sight only to be led back to his abandoned walking stick. A short-lived lot of luck that owed its much from a usurer of lack.
Who are these that live in the dark?
By day under the eternal flaring spark
Come night under the pale celestial mark
Who are these bringers of light?
By day escorted by lingering fright
Come night silhouetted against flickering candlelight
Who are these that dance by the fire?
By day quenching the earth with blood from the pyre
Come night chanting and ululating without tire
Who are these that spit words of fire?
By day drying the land’s spiritual mire
Come night engrossed in ritual choir
Are we not one of you?
Though of your ways little we have clue
Of our much we seek to imbue
To free and yet chase the true
Though the flowers have escaped my sight
Though the fruits have evaded my sleight
And though the trees have derided my height
In their hollow trunks
Found I’ve their murmurous riverbanks
In their ornamented boughs
Their cheerful throes
And have not their diligent pollinators
Those ever melodious consummators
Dutifully led me daily to their secluded nectarous resonators?
Come, let’s plant this tree. It will bear fruits with the condition that its roots die with every passing yield. So stretch that unsoiled fruitful hand stirred by benevolence. Stretch even further for that gift of penance buried in the soil. But remember stirrings are but weary feet bereft of vigour, stagnant sail ships denied of propelling winds. For when the wind blows it will surely come laden with more than just air. And as the barnacles await yet another shipwreck, the empty hands stretch for their maiming.
Farewell our fair well. You’ve served us well, midst the dry spell. For in all abundance it fell and dismissed that which you quell. Now immersed in its swell, of thirst we can hardly tell.
Years rush like a flood yet here be still alike the waters they empty to. But have not the skies teared and sent ripples on this calmness? Has not the earth below shook and raged the very bed that these waters lie? Brimmed they have grinned from the inebrious excesses and steamed they have fumed at the thirsting aridity. Yet, though it ever beckons, the sunset has yet to say farewell to their last glimmering droplet. Underneath the surface be where it keeps alight its undying furnace, its darkly grimace.
“Today it is calm, tomorrow it storms. But still water forever flows.”
Dance of the Water, P.Kokko (Kalmah)
Hey you! The infallibly stupid off from the funeral procession. Still wondering about the staple of polished rice are you? Hope not, for that Octobery log awaiting your tireless push ain’t going to roll far with such a quick burning fuel. And don’t even think of bringing back those dejected minions from the “full walk” tragedy into the fold to give you a hand. Last time I checked their opinions were still running on empty calories and if they had greens, that must have been decades before a certain debaucherous queen and her prolific colony took over the shaky part of their master’s farmland. Talk about an egg-crazed hive mind coming to a fragile rescue! Anyway, back to the log. My advice is that you take those precious obsidians of yours and think about starting a sizeable fire. Don’t mind their streaking, after all is it not from that fire that we owe civilization? With the heat of its flames, go ahead and cook something that will put to shame the minutes it takes to cook that polished rice – a ginormous starchy root tuber will do. Meanwhile as it cooks, retreat to your prosaic and lifeless slumber to hearten dreams of a grand hunger. Wherein, the empty stomach, spared of bitter digestive juices, will surely groan with demonic gutturals – nightmares to rouse the starved brain senselessly buried in a constipated pillow.
Calm and stern alike the flowerless fern. Braving callous wind and the frolicking careless man. There are no petals to pluck here, no flowing nectars to suck. The lush green bloom be its luck and their resounding lack. Yet, fronds heartening indifference, can only be held fast by roots outspread in ambivalence.
Kwa udi na uvumba kasimamisha nyumba. Kumbe ulimwengu kapanga yake. Upepo kapiga chafya, paa kajipata mwisho wa bahari. Jua karusha miale ya jehanamu, kuta kawachwa uchi. Mvua nalo katapika mafuriko, mawe karudi kizazini. Hata hivyo, kifo cha maono, jeneza lake nia tu.
Strum the chord and on they revel!
Chaos is only sown to reap accord at the cost of scythed masses, and the feasting table of giants is one that is contingent on the legs of sceptres that promise to bear its weight steadfastly. For the minion chefs, with their teary chopping onion fests, will gladly prepare these culinary delights with the flames of their self-oppressed torched effigies; as will the jubilant servants, lash their backs for badges sewn with the threads of discord. Yet to soothe their hunger is merely to tease their insatiable bellies.
Cut the music and the prize for stomping is a foundation beaten to gravel.
“Oligarchs need each other; they are their own best friends; they understand their insignias – but nevertheless each of them is free; he fights and conquers on his ground, and would rather perish than submit” F. Nietzsche