We are as a song, “a slow dying flower”
My soul lurks in the dark shadows of Lalomanu trees, after the sun had long gone. But the child I miss is the goddess of the breeze.
The white doves circling the hills behind us are angels, I have come to believe. Such is the blessing of sadness. We are always immersed in tender-love so fragile and a kindness so bitter and yet so sweet.
But I wake to empty nights sometimes. I think of the hollowness of this life. What keeps a soul so broken? If there is one last breath to take, I would give it away to someone who needs it. But who needs another suicide? This world is hollow enough!
If a soul is composed of music, I will agree, it is also made up of the ever present mind, good reason and the human heart. But look here into my small palms dear reader. Imagine the globe in it.
We are a mindless lot, with hardly a good reason for the things we have done to the world and its innocent bystanders. And if you pardon me, I wish to mock our own innovative imagination. We have become lovers of anything yet what hearts have we left to love the terrible things and to hold each other genuinely? We are as a song, a slow dying flower.
What buffoonish life is this anyway? There in the high up places where moral and goodness are supposed to be true, wisdom is crunched up like paper and thrown to the floor. I am appalled at bookish thick written education, the tools and stuff of technology, the climbing creations of mankind. I am shocked at religion and its disagreements too. All these things seem like frostbites forming on the window panes of a lonely life we make.
But where is God and why if he is around, is he missing? I think sometimes like a prayer is being said as we each by each walk this life, and the murmuring of it is on God’s lips. Where does he sit among us?
Is he with the leaders braving a face to save us from progress, or is he with the children playing with sticks on the sand? Would he be within the rustling wind in the leaves or giggling inside the long drop of the gushing waterfalls? May I also say that he could be sitting here, singing lyrics for me, I wonder.
Wouldn’t this life be so much better if we were filled with surprise as God is? I would open up my wounds for you to heal and you could share your black velvety shadowy trees with a soul searcher like me.
I would blow your mind away with my goddess of the breeze and you would tip toe onward to the northern hemisphere and the east, to collect all their dying flowers. Then you would present them to the kings and rulers there to soften them. And all along, each of us would murmur a prayer for each other. Yes dear reader, it would be so sweet if we were both as a prayer on God’s lips, silently living in a soft glowing hour.