Keeper of arcane secrets A land of great escapes Temple-hopping hotspot Hash-haggling hippie hive Mystical mo-mo madness Ancient trade bazar Never knew Empire Durbar Square 's the downtown Underwater, back before its day
I am not the fallen, but the falling -- he who never hit the ground. And you may hope to know my call, but I was never there at all. I was sitting on the tower. I was dropping to the ground. I never emitted a flash of light, and never emitted a peep of sound. I am the falling, not the fallen. The one who never hit the ground.
From dirt, the newly sprouted plant is but two tender leaves, drooping. Its silken shaft in subtle slant, in shadow of gardener, stooping. ... Becomes the tree standing stout -n- straight. Its leafy limbs doggedly swayed. Its own acorns now split and sprout, as the old man sits in its shade.
I a stand of pines from the lake's edge to the mountain's bald spot
II dense green vines wind through dead tree branches disguising death
III the mountain lake refreshes and chills by sight alone
In isolation, I took to story, and traipsed through worlds impossible yet true, living life from infantile thru hoary, under skies: gunmetal to deepest blue, in lands where trucks were known to be lorries, and ancient cities breathed as though brand new. Where neither time nor bars could imprison, I found my phoenix had now arisen.
I roam the old city, gazing at Gothic gargoyles and touching stonework made by men long since dead, wondering how I ended up in this chunk of time, rather than one in which this land was all just forest or marshland, or one in which we all wait amid the rubble to blast off to some secondary hive of humanity.
under spring skies, the evergreen - thick with new needles - echoes the tune sung by hardwood neighbors
