Ready For Change
23 November 2023
Sunrise, after a long doubt, and
our journey resumes, the one started before
stars were named, toward Ashtoreth, maybe
toward some Valhalla, but certainly ours,
here and now. In this legacy, sorcerers
fail to revive, and time passes, as always.
If only the stars would align, like before,
when hope meant something, mankind could rise
and be sure, but our stars float awry,
too disturbed by each other
to fly or to guide human eyes.
--
Is it Dawn, and if so, does she come
from the East, or have we been deceived
for long ages about where hope dwells,
what hope is? In the East, Magi
suffer oppression, and others toil on,
so what dawn could they bring here,
where stars have stopped shining out meaning?
What dawn...further east, in Kung-Fu Tzse's house,
now the master is homeless, his unfilial children
rejecting his lessons in favor of permanent revolution.
Not here, no, keep looking...
When Dawn comes, it comes with a bang,
but it leaves with a whimper,
as previously observed,
but this time is so different, so new!
Are there flowers? And why?
When it comes it just comes of its own accord.
--
What is future? What history?
If not just a mallet for striking one's enemies,
if really a there-to-behold, even now, in potentia,
the newborn first imitating father and mother,
then leaving the den to seek out its own place
among stars, among earth, with the words that were spoken
remembered and cherished, together with others
together for now, then apart, then forgotten,
but living throughout and within the tradition
which echoes with words, with new words, always new,
to remark what has been for posterity.
--
The newness of the day can cancel Nothing,
see the self-negating spirit succeed
and rid us of itself, with final vigor.
No more piddling doubts or quibbling with the self,
no more self-criticism or phony dialectics,
only learning, only growing through surprise (there is
no other way), and only strong souls daring thought
(all others knowing thought is not their cause).
Then free from terror, free from all the machinations
of the empty revolutions, but still freer of what came before,
we'll build, and start from Nothing, if we must,
for 'tis with Nothing that our forbears stopped,
and we go further, on into the formless cold
of space eternal, warped by dreams of grids
and all false representing symbols, such that
we can actually believe we've mastered time,
and that, like space, it is a thing of grids
and not the source of mysteries and growth.
Enough of this, it has been said,
but let me urge you one more time,
pray do not fall for all you're told,
despite the grandeur of the teller.
But don't be a doubter-on-command.
That is no better.
--
The point, the point...there must have been one,
how else could we live, without purposes, lacking design?
Yet we've failed to find it now time after time.
So what sacred remains from the astral pyre
await some old reinvigoration? The rough beasts
have all come and gone, their day dies,
and the new day is dawning, this time
with less obstinance, no absolutes, and a people
born ready for change.
