They sit on their temples,
songs passing over heads, swimming
with the clouds, vanishing among
the stars, faded moon, and the sun-filled
heavens. They watch the multitudes,
in their bright and wild colors, pass.
They remark to one another: How
strange they are! How remarkable.
When midnight comes, and the darkness
envelopes even the light from their eyes,
they shudder and cry out. In
the morning, some of them are
different, as if they caught the light
of the rising sun. They stand and process.
The river, quiet. Clouds sparkle, shadowed by thick mountains.
A lone tree, shivering. The breeze is slight, traveling on a breath.
The man sits on the grass. He has green eyes,
like the forest’s bloom. He lies on his back, asleep.
Peace fills his face. Birds speak in the leaves.
The grass, the dew, the dawn sky. The sun floods the heavens,
it becomes like reeds through the clouds.
God is here, on the earth. His feet, as if a rumbling storm,
his heavy-laden voice, as if the high wind.
The man stirs in his sleep. The water of the stream bristles.
We are the men by the sea. We sleep in dreams forged by
the heavens. We hold the earth in our hands, we hold
the power given to us by God, yet we are too much of the flesh.
We cry out to him, and then shield our eyes.
The steel we have taken from the earth covers our eyes,
we are blind to him who made us. We are silent,
our mouths sewn shut by our own hearts.
We sleep by the wayside. We feel the breeze against our face.
We sleep on the green groves. We see the sun dawn the sky.
We meditate on the waves of the river, and we
listen to the song of the birds.
But his face seeks us. His face is like the brightest sun,
and through his creation, he calls to us. Through the intricate lines
in his memory, through the blood in the trees and the
feathers on the bird, through the vales in the mountains and
the lines in the river, he calls to us. As we embrace his call,
the crowing of creation flows back to us, and we are at peace.