The night is still. The only lamp in the room glows and burns in a pencil thin flame, and the room is clad with a beautiful sadness. I am reminded of distant times when I lit candles with my mother and sister, sitting quietly around the warmth of the flame; there was a certain lovely intimacy about it all - the frequent power cuts, the candles, the dim, dancing lights you could see in every house on the street; so beautiful and dark the streets would get, and the dim candlelight from each home - eerie, yet reassuring in a distant way..a sign of life in its essence - pure, uncorrupted by the mechanical, the routine, the familiar.
I interrupt my thoughts to open the bottle of ink laying on my table - the familiar sound of the metal cap brushing against the glass in the pristine silence brings back memories distant and forgotten...vague..these memories, they seem inseparable from the writing process itself. I start writing, guided by the light of the lone lamp. The night is cold, unseemly of late spring. These words flow out on to the paper, as if uncensored by thought.
The light from the lamp
Burned tall; a blue crimson flame.
The wick was parched, as was the mind
A searing intensity I held in my heart.
A strange beauty lay in the air,
a cold night, late in Spring.
I lay there on soft, soft Earth,
She holding me in her bosom
And taking in the air so sweet, so pure,
I wondered, what a strange mystery it is,
to breathe?
Flicker on did the little lamp,
a gentle breeze did blow,
so tall, these shadows, like Goliaths,
did readily dance at Her will.
I lay there watching with ceaseless intent,
the swaying of the Shadow and wondered,
what a strange mystery it is, to behold?
And it seemed the night got quieter still
Save the flickering light from my lonely lamp,
seemed a blanket there was cast,
so pregnant with darkness, so utterly still
Nay, not the stillness or silence of isolation,
of desolation; but silence of great depth,
great fullness, and beauty.
'Twas the silence that gives life to the manifest.
My breath grew shallow, and I wondered,
what a strange thing it is, to listen?
As I lay there in my Mother's arms,
watching these mysteries in great delight,
their infinite beauty sinking deeper,
the mind was as quiet as the night itself.
My little lamp was running dry,
and I knew it was time to leave.
A last little flicker, and the flame had burned out.
My eyelids grew heavy with an abiding peace,
silent witnesses to the first ray of the morning sun,
my weary eyes closed to a lasting repose.
I interrupt my thoughts to open the bottle of ink laying on my table - the familiar sound of the metal cap brushing against the glass in the pristine silence brings back memories distant and forgotten...vague..these memories, they seem inseparable from the writing process itself. I start writing, guided by the light of the lone lamp. The night is cold, unseemly of late spring. These words flow out on to the paper, as if uncensored by thought.
The light from the lamp
Burned tall; a blue crimson flame.
The wick was parched, as was the mind
A searing intensity I held in my heart.
A strange beauty lay in the air,
a cold night, late in Spring.
I lay there on soft, soft Earth,
She holding me in her bosom
And taking in the air so sweet, so pure,
I wondered, what a strange mystery it is,
to breathe?
Flicker on did the little lamp,
a gentle breeze did blow,
so tall, these shadows, like Goliaths,
did readily dance at Her will.
I lay there watching with ceaseless intent,
the swaying of the Shadow and wondered,
what a strange mystery it is, to behold?
And it seemed the night got quieter still
Save the flickering light from my lonely lamp,
seemed a blanket there was cast,
so pregnant with darkness, so utterly still
Nay, not the stillness or silence of isolation,
of desolation; but silence of great depth,
great fullness, and beauty.
'Twas the silence that gives life to the manifest.
My breath grew shallow, and I wondered,
what a strange thing it is, to listen?
As I lay there in my Mother's arms,
watching these mysteries in great delight,
their infinite beauty sinking deeper,
the mind was as quiet as the night itself.
My little lamp was running dry,
and I knew it was time to leave.
A last little flicker, and the flame had burned out.
My eyelids grew heavy with an abiding peace,
silent witnesses to the first ray of the morning sun,
my weary eyes closed to a lasting repose.
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