Date: Mon, 03 Mar 2003 06:17:59 -0500
Subject: 


From: "Rasa Bhava" <pravritti-AT-mchsi.com>
To: <sa-cyborgs-AT-lists.village.virginia.edu>
Subject: Eternal
Date: Mon, 3 Mar 2003 00:53:09 -0600


The Mansion of the Eternal

The mansion of the eternal
Gave way to the garden of being.
Love's slender petals felt the sun.
The sweet longing of inspirations
Danced upon the soul
And spread through infinite worlds
With time's work as the Divine Will.
Into a great golden canyon
The world path cut by the civilizations
Poured the mercury of her blood.
Silver rivers reflecting
the integral face existence.
In my hand
I caught the plentitude of colors
Of some half imagined fabric of the Gods.
All to become the silver reflecting light.
My hand held the tiny black lines of letters and symbols.
She who could come led me
In that stream.
The Mother of existences was a shelled
and sank into a blackness
filled with the alphabet wires,
Glyphing twisted forms of rubbled expressions,
Rivulet rhythms of the majestic
used and discarded.
The human vastness of thought and words
Of dream deeds and metaphored karma
All played out to once living awareness,
The rolling wave of soul force in evolution.
Its principles decayed in the world form.
Emotional exchange, the great pattern
Of hunter and hunted all gone into oblivion
like the original forces
Of the universes before the moment.
Here and there a great symbol of movements
Threaded the fired remnants, vague and obscure
The clinging mask of a Buddha
The silver cross of a Christ
Its horizontal marks displaced by time
 From the fire wheel of the Agni.
All faded into now
the whiteness of the great and vast
The new unthought worlds beyond history
Where the unformed virgin lands of the new minds
Knew only
Loved
Bliss
By their own God spun harmonies.
Unapproachable in body
We lay beneath in the falsehood of the darkness
In the nature that was no longer known.
Fallen away like unseen leaves in the primordial forest.
The sun dial shadow still spoke
To the unformable mask of times inevitable
in the few remaining years
Given to a body where the creative urge was spent.
The force of living, habit
The early promise
Closed in the old world.
The formative years and years
Of slumber waves ashore.

Sterling Hart