Sunday, January 21, 2007

I Am The River Of Time

Rain is beautiful after dust and heat. I watch it trickle down the narrow lane and listen to the clatters along the rooftops. I watch from inside as it trickles across my window pain. It gushes and struggles from the throat of the overflowing spout. It pours and pours; like a river down the gutter roars the rain. Swift and wide with a muddy tide. I welcome the rain.

The sick man from his chamber looks at the twisted brooks; he too can feel the cool breath of each little pool. The beauty of the rain is the fact that you can actually feel the earth growing calm again. We breathe blessing on the rain.

Down the road the neighboring school lets out. Here come the boys with more than their unwanted noise. Now commotion comes down the wet streets. They pretend to sail their mimic fleets, till the pool engulfs them in its whirling, pattering turbulent ocean of raindrops.

Imagine that on every side, where far and wide, like a leopards tawny and spotted hide. Stretches the plain, to the dry grass and the drier grain. How they all must welcome the rain.

In the furrowed land the patient toilsome oxen stand; lifting the yoke encumbered head, with dilated nostrils spread, they silently inhale the sweet clover scented gale. The vapors arise from the now well watered and smoking soil. For now there is gentle rest. Their large and lustrous eyes seem to thank the Lord more than the man's spoken word.

Near at hand, from under the sheltering trees, the farmer sees. His pastures, and his fields of grain, as the bend their tops to the numberless beating drops of the incessant rain. The farmer he counts it as no sin that he sees therein only his own thrift and gain.

These, and far more than these, the poet sees! He can behold aquarius of old,walking the fenceless fields of air; and from each ample fold of the clouds about him rolled scattering everywhere the showering blessing of the rain. But the farmer he just sows his grain.

But I can behold things magnificent and bold that have not yet been told to man. The secret has never been sung or said. My thoughts follow the water-drops down to the graves of the dead. Down through chasms and gulfs profound, to the dreary fountain-head. Lakes and rivers under ground I see them when the rain is done, on the bridge of colors climbing up once more to heaven, the raindrops ascend once more.

I am the Seer, with visions clear. I see forms appear and disappear in the perpetual realm. Mysterys and secrets I keep. Be they from birth to death, from death to birth, from earth to heaven, from heaven to earth. Of all things, unseen before, unto these wondering eyes reveal the universe as an immeasurable wheel turning forever more.

I Am The River Of Time


naughty drawdy said...

Thank you so very much for sharing this with Listless readers... absolutely gorgeous!

Mohawk Chieftain said...

Simply striking images!