The One Who Says “I” (Meaning, Human)

1.

Reaching this peak was easy—
just a moment.
Nature and the knowledge of humans,
vast and all-encompassing,
unfolded before me like a map.
Let someone come
and shape what lies ahead of me
into words, however they like.
Someone who will feel the tension of
the power lines cutting through the green
split by the shadow of a cloud,
who will scream to drown highways in
cool lake waters,
who will offer the orchards to countless singing birds.
Someone beautiful.
But that person is not me, cannot be me—
for now.
My beauty branches out from another body.
My gaze heaps upon the layers of tar aligned with the soil,
shaking a pine tree to its core,
then softens on a juniper's
cloud-pillow-leaves.

2.

My question, then, is this: Is it love that strikes?
From the very roots of the mountain,
with the scent of epochs crashing into my nose,
what is the name of this bewilderment?
It must not be love—
because seeing it everywhere,
constantly speaking its name aloud,
I have consumed it.
Now its form is mere dust,
what remains in my palm—
barely existing in words,
a few crumbs entrusted to
the love of distant lake birds
and children under shining rooftops.

3.

Still, I play at this peak,
wandering.
I spark arrogance
over stones respectfully laid for the past.
It’s the forest’s request,
its marrow calls to me.
It whispers that the riverbed
thirsts for a few of my words.
But the mind nestled among these
is trapped in a cycle,
from us to me, then back to us.
My mind, that is, is human—
in the coming and the going.

4.

Shadows slide and shorten.
A “prophet”
comes to my side—
a man who hears the call,
who knows how to speak it aloud,
maybe even the Messiah himself,
grown bored of the heavens and descended to me.
Perhaps
the angels’ carefree existence
felt light to him.
He comes, sits within me,
gazes at the already-sandlike bones of my love,
blows upon them.
The heavy-cloud-drapes
pull aside in his honor.

5.

This prophet, sensing my questions,
my fabricated answers,
and most of all, my grief and sorrow,
says:
"Be like cats and dogs.
A cat, even when alone,
hides its waste.
A dog,
wagging its tail to love,
does not account for poor affection.
Even if they riddled
a little girl with bullets,
even if the beauty of the earth and humans
were being torn apart all around—
Look! Our road stretches toward the horizon,
flanked by trees large and small.
Along this road, love—look!
You and I will lift the corpses
just by looking."

6.

For a while, we are distracted.
The shadows begin to lengthen.
At the peak,
the prophet
and I (the human)
are weighed down by sorrow.
A caravan appears.
As they come closer,
I sense their excitement,
and when I begin to hear their voices,
their goodwill.
Thus, my darkness is startled.
The prophet understands this,
and his heart expands further.

7.

He rises, greets them,
and falls into step ahead of them,
leading them all to a lush valley,
far from me,
to the banks of a green stream.
I know—
as they light their fires (they, meaning humans),
he will share their bread.
Blessings will be granted to them,
and to some,
the wisdom of those blessings.

8.

They leave.
I remain as a mere body
and adorn myself,
lie upon the ground in stillness.
My emotions leap from stone to stone,
like a bird.
Then, I am left utterly alone—
shadows long,
the light gone.
Again, my thoughts turn to humans,
again they return,
and I say:
"Not like this.
Not in my human state,
nor in the state of cats or dogs.
But if I could become
a dragonfly,
to follow after them in my dragonfly form,
when I fly, let all poems scatter in the wind
instead of staying lodged in my throat.
Let there be a few distant fires,
the lines of bread-sharers among them.
With my thousand eyes,
weeping dragonfly tears,
I would watch them till morning."

9.

When all thousand springs dry up,
when the rising sun burns,
let me return—
to the one who says “I,” to the human.
In an instant,
I will ascend the peak once again.


(The artworks belong to me, they are created with brush pen, charcoals and pencils.)