31.

His Soul and His Shadow

What can not be known remains unknowable, yet I see with the eye of the sun as if it came to rest on my forehead, throwing light in the dark corners of things, casting the shadows of men into uncharted lands. In the houses of the dead the doors are swinging. That which was open has been shut. That which was shut has been opened. Sunlight enters the darkened house and the soul comes home with the umbra.

I have walked that road between mountains, longer than night, whiter than salt, where the hearts of men are made fragrant as hyacinth nodding. To the fields I've travelled and back. I am the same man made new. My hands carry the power of love. I hold my hard, ancient life like crystal. My shadow binds itself to me. My soul whirls, rushing overhead, grazing my hair with the flurry of its wings. Gods sail in the dawn with a cargo of souls waiting to be born. I am the first to walk this road, bringing the reckoning of years. With the eye of sun I see the continuous motion of days, words only silence could have brought to my ears, and light in the eye of the world still to come. My soul, shadow and I are walking.

I know the facts of my life like stones, their various colors and powers. The things I see I've named and remembered. I call to my memories and dreams like children. I've walked the long road and seen the great one napping: old man in the dooryard, the prayers of men like smoke in his beard.

There are those who know nothing of walking in light, who dwell in caves or creep from the rocks, who doubt that the songs of sparrows are real, who live by the club and knife. They would seize a man's dreams and speak them with fetid tongues. They'd tear out his heart and scatter his bones. Their road is dark, but just as well travelled as mine, though their shadows and souls refuse to walk with them.

I see with the sun's eye how doubt under the brilliance of sky causes the clouds to gather. I see I am fire becoming fire, a drop of rain become one with the river. I see the great one weaving a multitude of souls into the threads of his indigo robe. His words are ripe as pomegranates or grapes. His breath is sweet as calamus.