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The wind whirled

through the hollow mountains and empty forests.

In the live gardens of dormancy,

its frolic met the shadow of its conscience.

The black wind rose and blew the carrion of hope

into the multifarious crevasses of the underworld;

for if there once stood a heart so pure,

the currents of Tartarus reclaimed parentage

over the zephyr most blithesome.

“O Bearers of Beauty and Paladins of Life’s Glow!”

roared the child of hidden thorns;

“Have you no sentiment for the suffering of the sickly nursed?

Woe betide your cowardice

as the world transpires under the vexing star of vacuity!

Lassitude unsurpassed dims the ancient fire and condones lies.

Where is the embrace of sweet night?

Where the dynamic current that transcends flesh and bypasses time?”

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Be ever mindful of your speech.

All you say and allow in – even music – acts as a spell upon your being, and not all influence is there to benefit.

Quiet the mind, and learn to listen.

Take control of yourself, and be the master creator you were born to be.

Fear is an illusion.

Despise it and rise above it.

Transmute it into courage.

The sun hid behind the ashened clouds of the desolate afternoon as the melody of rain and the fragrance of humid earth danced in through the ajar window.

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A butterfly clashed against the windowpane. The wind dragged it into the silent chambers, and laid its corpse to rest upon the snout of the sleeping performer.

The cat sneezed at the touch of the dead insect, and opened his eyes alarmed as the memories of the previous night returnt to him.

Lord Kamsim Mira jumped out of bed at once and staggered toward the towering double doors at the feet of his place of rest. He looked for pommels, yet found none. Scratching away the darkened wooden colours, the feline reached a solid wall. The doors had been a painting all along.

In whimpers, the cat turnt cold on his heels. He dragged his sore feet window-ward, and inadvertently burried his paw in his chest when he felt the weight of a million chains yanking his heart away.

With great strain, in tears, and with a runny nose, the cat fell on his four legs and crawled to the window sill. To the furtherance of his dismay, there was no afternoon that his senses could entertain, and much less a ground upon which to land and escape. The weary sky flickered. The illusion was uncapable of self-sustaining as the feline alternated sight between its falsity and the great black void below.

The aroma of earth’s union with the cleansing beads of heaven slowly painted images in the artist’s mind’s eye. Treasures of another time rendered the cat speechless as though his grieving bleeding chest denied him the utterance of his agony.

Overcome by a weakening uneasiness, Lord Kamsim Mira’s chest fell beyond the window-sill. Nauseous, the feline made an attempt to recover the equilibrium, yet his paws slipped off as waves of sickness increasingly rushed in. The bile trespassed the cat’s threshold, and he regurgitated. Blood vessels exploded from the corners of his eyes as the blackened vomitus poured out of his shaking body.

Impotent to hold himself any longer, Lord Kamsim Mira plummeted into the abyss; however, the visions followed him into the pit.

“Sí se puede”, I often heard. A phrase bearing the meaning of a possible endeavour, that it is possible to carry on and be victorious against the enemy.

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“¡Sí se puede!”

I wondered what in soothe was possible, and then I said to myself, “It is possible to cry, to scream, and to die”.

Ruins will engage the eye with woe and nostalgia as the many pretty murals lauding comunism and the spooned psychological combat against an invisible adversary will display where all the care has been bent to.

Mother Nature stands as an entity uncorrupt. With semblance still virginal and fertile, she screams of potential; still her hand is vacant and devoid of pleasure.

Nature blossoms astoundingly vivacious as population is abased with everyday effort. But worry not, for it is possible. It is possible to be beaten and squeezed until the shores of the afterlife are reached. The war has already a victor in its own world of make-believe.

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Image by baetzpetra from Pixabay

Easy it is to romanticise the land for her magnificent groves and mountains, for her promoted beaches. Only the inhabitants of this island reversed in time will reveal the truth that breath-taking pictures and the flora and fauna hide.

I have heard misery-conscious mouths avow that Cuba is delightful. Thus I wonder Do you find pleasure in starving? In being deprived of the basic untainted liquid that sustains life? If you enjoy the existing conditions so much, why don’t you stay and carouse until you putrify? Do you suffer from amnesia that when you depart you forget the sweat and the tears of the countrymen, or are you the kind to portray a deceptive reality to the ignorant eye? If that is so, I damn you to retrace your steps and recognise that common life takes after the appearance of a dump that overflows.

Withal dare say I that Cuba is an enjoyable land, beheld from the distance through some foreign godhead’s eye. Majestic in nature, death in the eye. Majestic in nature, oppression in the human heart.

With a raging sword poised to slice, I still wish to add that all of this I cannot chastise. Hard times forge individuals of a lofty stock. Warriors stand, strength surmounts all obstacles. People live mostly through what pertains to their personal and higher growth.

I wondered anew what was possible, and to myself I then said, “The magnitude of reality is felt through personal perception. It is all mental, and the learning process is eternal”.

Assaulted from the streams of craftily void-bedighted melancholy, a common man most strange set my insides on fire. The urge to walk away rivalled me at first, yet I won once I told myself that his lips I would claim.

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The hissings of deflection echoed as the deviant moon weaved tales in my head.

“Danger!” they said. “Intoxication and dread!”

Some may argue that temptation had a role in this play, yet I say it was curiosity that drove me past the edge.

I wished to unravel the potential held in his spring-like cage.

I rose from the Underworld as a hunter for the prey.

Choirs of roses and chrysanthemums beclothed me as I danced above the frozen waters and stiff air.

The common man still strange reveled in the image of my luminous threads, bewitched by the songs that my soul firmly did reflect.

But fascination does not guarantee comprehension in a person.

To my picture, he cast his own ever disregarding with stupendous affright and unwavering creed the sinister light with whom he did speak.

As heartening and liberating as the strings of my instrument sounded, the essence of the message dissolved before the gates of his own encagement.

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

“You are my call and vocation”, he used to say, “but your words make and make no sense”.

In his narrow perception, my vision was untamed a will o the wisp most stubborn waiting for ground to lay and rest.

I foretold forthcoming pain. This man this walking flame breathed dead in his green meadow’s weight.

As captivated as I was, my judgement held onto me tight. Thus, in an April night, a full moon shone bright and to her I gave my woes and sang:

“If you must depart from me, leave.

If that is so, then let me go.

Just remember I was genuine”.

The saline ocean of my eyes poured to purify my being as indifference planted her seed in my soil of sleen.

May trailed in nonchallantly its rains a remainder of what I gave away as the common man ever strange ran away when my mind he could not overtake.

In my own unconcern, a part of me was not at rest. Detachment and the disrespect of a child most strange waged war within myself in the search of a balance that seemed too far away.

I embarked in the endeavour to slay the raging beast of my inlands, and with a chalice at hand, I sang anew at midnight.

Cardinal fire with earthly stare

saw a little flower and lost his head.

Saw the Abyss right through her eyes,

but could not hold the maelstrom inside.

~*~

Walking flame that burnt so bright,

met with Darkness, drowned himself in the tarry waters of the depths.

The night was witness to their descent,

and the daemoness sang in hazel duet:

“I let you go.

I let you go.

Despite it all, I let you go.

Go find yourself.

Go find your peace.

Clearly – visibly – my thorns are too rough for your skin”.

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

By lordly will, peace spread her tentacles and embraced me. Submerged in perfect apathy, I foresaw the man’s return.

With an injured head and grasping onto his last hope, he came to me for the nourishing of the spirit and the soul. In his exhausted vessel, he rose and wept before me that I may forgive his transgression.

“Fool!” he said, “I am a fool beyond consideration!”

“A fool indeed,” said I, “but I will look past this indignation”.

Despite my impartiality toward the matter, I chose to stay and see the direction of the case. In cold desire, I observed and learnt human behaviour. And, as habits of the lost go, this man most strange this walking flame ran away again when truth proved too strong for him to take.

Now, I had seen the cycle ’till the end. I returnt to my abode laughter in my core and erased all the trails that may lead to my door were the irresolute infant in a man’s shadow to return with promises that he cannot hold.

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