Recalling the Mission

like an aching wound,
a chasm cut deep
in the heart of the world,
where primal dreams flow
in fluid tapestries of light;

Illuminated white pillars,
radiating upward,
stand in immense vertical
strength, unbending and glorious....

Melodic echoes
haunt the shaded undergrowth
of the forest floor
where naked tribal peoples
in their simplistic primitive
uncomprehending way
are set upon by beasts
clothed as men
with armored hearts,
insensitive to the music
of the spheres.

Fragile wafts of lament
dissipating into thin air
like incense prayers,
out of harmony with the vivid
and verdant living universe,
aching for redemption
from the curse and the fall.

Hope falters. Death reigns.
Is it God, or man, who is blind?
May 18 1998