The rituals of war are the altar sacrifice
of our collective confusion.
We think to put a bloody ram
upon the broken table
thinking the blade and the blood
will give us merit with the God
we have forgotten.
No remembrance comes
from this pointless sacrifice,
no feeling from the recurring violence,
only the increased numbing
of our once rich and fertile hearts.
The argument, the altar, the sacrifice,
these are the instruments
of the delusional priesthood,
the deceptive magicians
who steer our misbegotten course.
Deep in the mountain
there is a creek winding back
to a green and fertile canyon
abandoned by the merchants and slavers,
producing nothing worthy of sale
except ancient trees set in glacial silt,
rooted down to middle earth.
In that forgotten place
where the creek runs cold and brilliant
She awaits the lover She lost
when the Earth shifted
and he became dupe to the engines of war.
She knew his once bright fire
and is not fooled by what he has become.
She rests in Her obscurity,
the cedars and firs Her guardians,
the rocks and flowing water
Her touch stone and glimmer
of continuing presence.
She waits the time foretold of his awakening
amidst the bloody remains
of his brutal and ignorant practice.
She knows the greater Light is needed
and She feels that stirring in Her soul,
sending a message to all Her frightened children:
“The Light is returning, the Light!
Now may he awaken and allow his love for Me
to once again fill his heart.”
The human world knows little of this prayer
and less of the sacred place where it is spoken,
yet the magic of incantation has its way;
as the wages of war diminish,
the bankruptcy and dawning light
combine to bring new awareness.
In the quietness of this sacred moment
between what was, what is and what is yet to be
the wholeness of creation takes a first new breath.