For too many years you've seen them walking two by two
with parcels under arms, hearts draped in mother-hug charm,
the author's right and left hand.
They've passed you time and again,
ancient detectives dusting your eyes for clues:
that stubborn wayward child embracing scraped knees
who might desire return
to nestle loss in ethereal crystal streams,
gold-glass, jasper stone and jujube trees.
You've been in the theater long enough to know it's more
than just a one act play. But you keep watching over and over,
pretending the author doesn't see you there sitting content,
numb and scared. Like an instrument anticipating the touch
of human lips to learn music, he waits on sufficient courage,
so he can write the next act before it grows late.
Today, as the parcel bearers pass, you're inspired
to probe the veiled gaps of conventional thought
and uncover harrowing ridges of saber-ice:
Why many in the theater have frozen with fear.
Transfigured, you stand exposed
revealing another kind of suit:
The man in bright red and green with scepter
and coxcomb sitting off center of his head.
You are now drawn to a church you've passed for years.
The spire stands tall, stretching to pierce the sky,
allegedly securing escape for those who, like you,
having walked by and by, finally go in.
As you do, an old man swaddled in rags whispers
that dogs with the tallest tails bury their treasure the deepest.
Your tail is shortest! Then you think of unrequited gifts,
ability buried, and begin to disbelieve your own lie.
Inside the church you stand transfixed, unsure of your next move,
But you've seen Knight of the Eucharist and bend a knee.
At first it's awkward,
your guilt lies
convincing you you've done this before
and you kneel.
You begin, but the old man points to statues of assorted saints
and petitions: envoys, envoys too many ambassadors of prayer.
Besides, he says, it's like washing a wound with blood in here.
Leaving, you hear prayers collect in heaps on concrete
by the confessional freshly blessed for morning tithe.
The old man tears: they'll never make it . . . never make it out!
Outside, the messengers greet you and
hand over the parcel they've carried
since you were able to speak.
It's weather worn, stained, covered with dirt,
so much that you can't make out the address for return.
They give it to you now because the child lies stripped in your eyes.
Surely it's worth lifetimes of waiting.
But what could it be?
Marvelous revelation from the foundation of time?
A blessing, a promise, or a curse?
You open the box only to find
your initial etched across the face
of the faded, yellow credit slip inside.
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I am impressed with the magnitude of Your quills. Never rest Your pen.
"Life: A Multi Act Play or Requiem for Those Who Delay" stands for a great ontological and teleological discussions, and on mytheological (Myth + theology) analysis of the picture of our time.
In admiration.
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
Your Just Rewards Are Not Of In This Holy Hell World...
TRASK