Eugene Skeef > Green Ankh Forest Of Dreams I was walking in a dream state among the concrete rubble after the storm that silenced the voices of the choirs of morning. The moon of my disturbed sleep had been filled with so much fear that it had refused to come out from behind the dark clouds that suffocated the dying breath of night. But in the morning the sun rose bleeding with zeal from beyond the flames and smoke filled skies. I was blinded by the birds of light that flew through my somnambulant sky like love-tipped arrows in search of my inner longing. My eyes opened to reveal silent caves from which rivers had long ceased to flow, but deep inside, a seed of a seed of a seed pulsed with the memory of a forest where the umbilical cord of a prince had been buried. This was long ago, when our people still knew how to entrance a beast with their dance and speech of mesmeric song, when children were suckled by forest angels who descended on the slender threads of light that pierced the canopy of our people’s peace. It was here in the midst of fragrant mists of unremembered colours that the prince of peace had wandered freely inhaling the munificence of his domain. He knew without knowing that he did not own this vastness that quivered with colour and sound. He knew from his dreams that this was not his to keep, but to look after and to retain as a chosen custodian for the benefit of every living creature that was brought here by the compelling rhythms of life. At night he would look up through the shafts of promise and sing out his wonderment at the heaven of murmuring stars. In their flickering he saw himself echoed through an imagined geometry of complex invisible webs. He rose with the sun one morning and named himself after the body of stars that filled his dreams with the openness of the grasslands beyond the edge of the sacred forest. From that morning of the naming he vowed to rise every day with the sun until his own night came to claim him. But one morning his slumber had been wrapped too snugly in the blanket of his dreams and the sun came out from its own sleep but did not find him in his customary posture of salutation. He was woken rudely by a sudden thunderstorm that sent the forest elephants on a rampage, causing them to uproot the sacred tree planted over his buried navel string… So as I walked through the debris in this industrial wasteland of immeasurable proportions, I spotted a weed sprouting out of a crack in a slab of concrete. I stopped and stooped to look at it closely and before my eyes a myriad sprouts emerged from pores in the ruins… © Eugene Skeef 2012 2 hrs · · · London, United Kingdom
Posted on: Sat, 12 Jul 2014 10:53:12 +0000
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