40.

Becoming the Swallow

In the dark marrow of my bones I have made myself light. I am the swallow spinning at dawn, through whom light enters sky, who flies formless above a world of forms, ringing across the horizon. We make of ourselves what we imagine. I command scorpions to lie still. I open the east doors of heaven; arrows fly quick as light. I am a swallow like no other, full of magic, a daughter of Ra. Among gods and goddesses I live on air perfumed by clove and temple fires. I am a crystal where dark shapes enter and fill with color. Sunlight filters through each feather. In the light I quiver and whirl, and I know what shadows my passing throws to the ground.

It is morning in the noisy cities, on mountains where earth enters sky, in the cupped hands of beggars yawning on every street corner, and in the small dark mouth of a bird. Stretch out your hands filled with red barley, and I shall eat. Let me speak of all I have seen.

All days are but one day lived on the Island of Flame. Ra rises up as a column of fire and from him issue children bright and smouldering as metal, countless lights swirling in liquid darkness. His head throbs, then cracks like a blue speckled egg and the flaming sun rolls out. His words like swallows fill the air, and like a fine dust morning settles on the eyelids of sleepers.

Now is the day of reckoning when years laid end to end are numbered, when travellers huddled about the night fire hear the story of every man. The doors of the past and future open. I must speak of it. I was like Horus, prince of the air, son of Osiris, grandchild of Ra, blind in one eye until the moon rose. I sail at dawn and pass between two worlds. To the sky I am a thing of bone and earth; to the earth, I am partly sky. My face is the mirror, within my eye spins living fire. Dawn and dusk, I am the swallow skimming—vagabond, servant and god.

Though born of air, he who has not the imagination to fly falls to earth and grovels with worms. But he who believes is lifted by belief and returns to air, to the cool sweet milk of his mother.

I have lain at the feet of the world and felt its power pass through me. Dead I stood naked before the judged and I was pierced by truth. Down I fell and labored like a woman. I wept, I laughed, I was ashamed. I sang and in time I was made new. I bring the story of light: how I climbed the ladder of heaven, how with my wings I brushed the edges of stars and flew straight to the heart of the universe. Look at me, at my eyes. All I've seen is captured there. Look on the world built by magic and know the hearts of its children.

I have held my destiny in my two hands and I am the shape I made. I have suffered and loved. I have walked through fire and did not burn. I've been blown by wind and did not fall. I've walked the long road and kept to my journey though I met no other traveller. I have lost and found myself in every rock, field and tree. I know what I am and what I imagine. I know shadow and light, and I have never been satisfied with shelter and bread when the great was left unattained.

This I have done to enter death and turn from nothing toward life. I shall pass into heaven, even I shall pass like eternity, quietly in the fire and flesh.