dance, inner, break, hue, lost
A break in the clouds,
the many hues of the sky,
a dance of angels:
the inner light
of your lost dream.
Image source: pexels.com
From the depth we emerge to the light, hesitant, expecting,
Your hand holds mine: we never thought it would be like this.
We hear faint voices, are those of angels?
We no longer feel the cold, a strange peace invades our souls:
Are we now in Paradise?
Maybe one day we will miss the fog, the infernal traffic, the idiotic media, the inept politics… Of course, you might say it’s the same over there. I smile. It can’t be, and even if it were I long for the new, not the old.
We want to ride through the tree-lined streets, in a city where riding is the way to see, to go places. We want to visit the angels, the memorials to heroes, all the history of centuries past, to hear their tales, their longing too. We want to buy our meals at the corner of busy lanes, on markets overflowing with the richness of the South, sit in small cafés listening to jazz, building in our minds a limitless future.
Maybe we want even more, who knows, this is Faust’s city…
I cannot recall when you came. Probably long ago. Probably in one of those moments of sadness, of pain, perhaps of love. You stayed. You shaped my thoughts, my feelings. Nothing has been the same since.
“The same”? Do I mean, before I knew? Or simply before awareness came? We are not alone. And you are many. Are you from this world, or from the next? Are you beyond time, juggling souls, from one to another?
Image: Patrick Gomersall – All these things, via tauchner
From the Wassertor, the watergate, we walked slowly, hand in hand, along the bank of the old canal, and reached the Engelbecken, the angels’s lake. You looked at the sky, then at me: I understood, no need for word. Sunlight vibrated through the little fountains, antic roses shone on the brick walls.
The water reflected our thoughts, deep down ancient spirits awoke, to remind us that time is the great healer.
We found our place, and we knew it would take time for the dream to be realised…
Photo: Engelbecken, Berlin Luisenstadt, © 2016 Honoré Dupuis
Is this rock my last prison on earth, is this solitude my punishment, this rain my future?
This deluge is not only for me: it is for all those lost souls, those dying of a dying love, the ghosts of paradise, paradise lost…
Where are you? In what part of this glorious world are you now? And which one of us now looks after you? Is the sun bright and warm where you are now? Do you still listen to the chorus, each dawn, as you once did, nestled in my arms, eyes closed?
Pointless questions, I know this grief cannot reach you, my wings are clipped, those poor clothes are drenched, I can no longer pretend
To be anything but a fallen angel.
You stand at the gate, no longer a child, and not yet an angel: you see the sign, check on your own palm, it all lines up with the prediction. The years have not altered the meaning, as you recall, when you were last here, eons back, in the mist of a forgotten era, already you knew: you’d come back, and your daughters would follow, for there is no peace, until Gaia is safe, until Mother has reclaimed Her Creation.
For She knows the end, the story written, in the palm of Her hand. And you, sister, you are here to make Her will come true, against the demons, against the war waged in the name of fake deities: Her will be done, as you reach for Heaven, soon your rightful Home.
And so, you cross the threshold, heart beating, your head high, leading the Army of Earth.
Alpine valleys, their flowing streams, the Spring meadows and the sight of high peaks are an endless source of inspiration. Back in October 2012, two months after a wonderful summer visit to the South Tyrol I posted this sad and yet hopeful little story:
” The declining sunlight casts long shadows on the meadows, trees and rocks magically elongated over the sensual curves of the valley.
The little cross is hidden from view, not far from our path, but few walkers know it is there.
It’s almost our secret, a tiny haven nestled at the foot of the magic mountain, a special place: we belong there.
We can hear the small stream, running through the pine trees, as you turn your beloved face towards me, the green eyes I worship, deep into my lost soul, as images of our fall flash through my mind, and yours.
There, high above the valley, is the vertical cliff where you last kissed me, before our death: we haunt this place, and only the spirits will ever know.”
From the English Wikipedia:
“A Cistercian is a member of the Cistercian Order (/sɪˈstɜrʃⁱən/, abbreviated as OCist or SOCist (Latin: (Sacer) Ordo Cisterciensis), a Catholic and also Anglican religious order of monks and nuns. They are variously called the Bernardines, after the highly influential St. Bernard of Clairvaux (though the term is also used of the Franciscan Order in Poland and Lithuania), or the White Monks, in reference to the colour of the “cuccula” or white choir robe worn by the Cistercians over their habits, -as opposed to the black cucculas worn by the Benedictine monks. The original emphasis of Cistercian life was on manual labour and self-sufficiency, and many abbeys have traditionally supported themselves through activities such as agriculture and brewing ales. Over the centuries, however, education and academic pursuits came to dominate the life of their monasteries. A reform movement seeking a simpler lifestyle started in 17th-century France at La Trappe Abbey, which led to development of the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance (OCSO), commonly called the Trappists. After that the followers of the older pattern of life became known as the Cistercians of the Original Observance.
The term Cistercian (French Cistercien), derives from Cistercium, the Latin name for the village of Cîteaux, near Dijon in eastern France. It was in this village that a group of Benedictine monks from the monastery of Molesme founded Cîteaux Abbey in 1098, with the goal of following more closely the Rule of Saint Benedict. The best known of them were Robert of Molesme, Alberic of Cîteaux and the English monk Stephen Harding, who were the first three abbots. Bernard of Clairvaux entered the monastery in the early 1110s with 30 companions and helped the rapid proliferation of the order. By the end of the 12th century, the order had spread throughout France and into England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, Spain, Portugal, Italy, and Eastern Europe.”
There, the meadow gives way to a rockier ground, and the line of small trees, alpine oaks and pine, becomes visible, just under the cliff.
Many times we have taken this walk, your hand in mine, our steps silent, our slim bodies invisible even to the most attentive of mountain birds.
Always, we end up here, past the old chapel, which vibrates still from ancient pilgrims’ chants: at the crossway we turn towards the smooth rock, to the threshold.
Soon, the gate opens to our most intimate memory: us, enlaced, your eyes on mine, falling forever to our death among the splendour of His creation.