Libertiad
Audio File: https://soundcloud.com/peter-atkinson-17/libertiad-book-iI
O Lord, help me seek the truth, and tell
its story,
Guide my head, my heart, my hand, and
my pen,
To consider all of life’s history,
from its beginning
Up to now, that somehow we can break
through lies
And see it clear again, as you
created us to see,
As you created us to be, for lies
abound: the fog
Of them covers our eyes, like poison
it kills,
Like disease it spreads, like cancer
it grows,
Like other cycles it spirals,
continuously, in seamless
Pattern forever, but to the poison
there is antidote,
To the disease a cure, to the cancer
a remission,
The cycle can be broken, but it takes
perspective.
We must break far enough from the
cycle, to see
Clearly once and for all what it is
we face—that lies,
When seen from enough distance,
outside the battle,
The crisis, the painful emotional
crippling fear,
Can be seen for what they really are:
empty,
Powerless, shortsighted, and
superficial nonsense,
Merely the temptations of our
illusioned control.
Help me to see the cycles, the same
story repeated,
Again and again, over and over. The
moment shifts,
But the choice is always the same: I
am in control,
And so I can be, and do, and take
whatever I want.
This lie remains at the heart of all
the others, so God,
Lead me to this diagnosis, help me
gain the trust
Of my patients, and help me lead them
to face the
Pandemic, see the pain it causes, and
to endeavor
To take the prescription, for it is
only this: Engage
The truth, for until we do, nothing
else matters,
For the truth is that Love created
us, knows us,
Saves us, and is all that can sustain
us, and Love
Is engagement, getting messy, moved
and moving
Relational but never relative,
sacrificing, serving,
Freeing, giving, the beginning of
perspective,
For it doesn’t start with concern for
us, but is found
When seeking the best for each one
else, not
Every, but each, for real love always
is personal.
And since we must engage, help us to
engage,
Mind, body, and soul, in stories, not
statistics,
For each song in the continuum should
be sung,
For somewhere along the trickling
years of time,
Through history's shifts, twists, and
turns, the grind
Of battles, exchanges of power, the
tugs and tides
Of war, the rise and fall of kings
and systems,
The ebb and flow, wax wane, push and
pull,
Of each crisis and latest Armageddon,
we see
Love often gets lost in the shuffle
of each moment,
For it is in each moment, where lies
loom large
That our struggles for survival drown
Love’s
Still small, but ever steady and
constant voice.
Since all stories need context, a
starting place,
A point where the issues are made
clear, where
We come as close to recognizing good
and evil
As ever, let us begin this story, in
the last great war:
The last time, things seemed clear
and simple.
God, show to our minds a boat,
speeding across
The English Channel, where dressed in
green,
A normal American young man, taken
from
His anonymous life is shoved forever
into a moment,
Where we see history being made, and
the future
Being formed, where lies are being
called
To reckon, since Truth’s engagement
demands
That sometimes we fight. In the wee
small hours
Of the morning, which he knows could
be his last,
He seeks clarity, which you often
give in times
Like these. Despite the hum of the
motor, he prays,
Hoping to hear Love’s voice, above,
within, and beyond
The man made noise, cluttering and
overwhelming
His worry weakened, doubt infected
senses:
God in your wisdom tell me that this
must be,
For I shudder at the danger we face
this day.
It seems that my life at twenty four
is short
To end this way so many miles from my
home.
Is there any other way? May this cup
pass,
For my wife at home misses me, and I
her?
The children we hoped to have, will
die with me.
Is what we do today worth such a
cost?
Is war the answer, for I look to my
right
And I see myself—frightened boys,
alive,
Today, but death approaches fast for
us.
We know where we go, and what we
face.
Part of me feels it’s right, but I
don't know.
Illumine me with your spirit, O God,
Give to me the truth I need this day.
Alight my path, and come to show me
why,
And I'll give my life unto your
perfect will,
And commend my spirit to your loving
hands.
I pray this prayer in my savior's
holy name,
And with hope and faith, I humbly
say, Amen.
The stars shone above, twinkling as
they have
Since the very first day, and as his
eyes shut,
And sleep slid across his face,
needed peace
And rest in the midst of the tempest
of war,
A voice came to his attention,
saying:
Greatly beloved, hear me, pay
attention
To the words that I am going to speak
to you.
Rest now your body, and let your mind
Grab hold of all you've known, been
taught,
Thought and dreamed. Your words were
heard,
On this the first day you set your
mind to gain
Understanding, and humbled yourself
to God.
Now you sleep, and that sleep is
represent
Of the story, as we begin, for
throughout
Your history, human life has been
lulled
To sleep by pattern and cycle, only to
wake
Every so often, and find yourselves in
chains.
The story I employ to teach and answer,
What you asked, is one of sleeping and
waking:
Sleeping, with your eyes closed to
truth,
And waking to find yourselves,
undeniably
Chained by the visual illusions
encircling
Your lives, like shackles around your
wrists,
The manacles of mind, tradition,
institution,
The various dead ends, of just the way
it is,
Imposed on you by worldly powers,
reliant
Upon your slumbering industry, singing
The lullabies of statis quo, sung in
soothing
Tones of safe, silent, secure,
satience:
You
cannot do for yourself you know,
It is
for your benefit, that I must go,
Before
you now, and forever I’ll be
On
watch for your security.
And in hearing that someone has taken
Control, your eyes grown heavy, you
Fall into the sleep that forgets the
real
Of your dreams, and turns the real
inside
Out, and upside down, until black is
white,
Heaven is Hell, and two plus two is
five.
The sleeper never questions why, no
they,
Simply, do and die. You may ask
yourself,
How does one find truth when you cannot
Trust your eyes, for what you see
depends
On what you think, and what you think
Depends on what you see? How do you
Unite intuition, sensation, feeling,
and thought,
When they’ve been battling it out over
Who can dominate the Will so long?
How do you know to whom to listen
When the volume of the voices of
conflict
Is determined by might and not
accuracy?
You simply must do, what you have done,
Humbling yourself enough to ask, for in
The asking is doubt, and doubt breaks
cycles
Of sure, and wakes us from the sleep of
knowing,
Into the waking, conflict of the
seeker,
Who finds, knocks, and enters the open
door
Of true discernment, which is all
possible,
Though it never is completely at rest,
For truth is alive, as I am, and not
finite.
There was a time of blissful innocence,
When life was filled with purposed
existence,
Before your wills became divided,
before
Dreams and reality were separated, when
all
There was, was you and I, in harmony,
Not lulling, but in vibrant dance,
In the absolute, though never stagnant,
Perfection of Love, but I always knew
That for you to truly love, you needed
To know the material of love, the three
Ingredients: Freedom, Faith, and
Sacrifice,
And so I introduced a new chord,
challenging
Dissonance, enough else to spark in you
A desire for other, and you saw it as
more,
Simply because of its echoing difference,
And so you left my embrace, to seek the
else.
I could have stopped you, surely, but
Love,
The dynamic harmony of my unfolding
creation
Required you to be free, and so I
sacrificed
Perfection, because I believe in you,
And my faith comes from a very different
Perspective, for I know all songs, and
hear
The resolved chord, beyond the
dissonant
Tension that envelops your mind to now,
And though I will not audition its end
For your ears, I will show you the
modulations
And changes of chord up to now, for in them
Are the precursors of fruition, the
foreshadowing
Of resolution, and the movements of my
symphony.
The dissonance of the new chord shook
you
By showing that not everything needs be
In perfect tune, that there are
variables,
And in those variables, one could get
lost,
For one might just lose sight of the
origin
Of perfection, being sure that
something is off,
But still not grasping how it happened,
that it
Happened, or how to get back, but
constantly
Conscious that once there was something
Much different, and much better than
what is,
That though the discord has come, there
was
Once something called good, and that
standard
Is known and desired, but never quite
in full.
So you seek towards order, always
looking,
Always cognizant, always longing, and
willing
To submit your freedom and your very
being
To that which provides an answer, any
answer,
But in a world that was created Good,
there is
Design, but instead all you've seen is
conflict,
Partial truths, incomplete, and never
lasting,
For not all ideas are created equal, and
only one
Restores the perfect harmony that once
was lost,
And that remains to freely join the
living fabric
Of my creation, giving up yourself in
love.
In your life, no doubt, you have felt
the seasons.
The heat, and burning sun of summer,
the biting
Cold of winter, and the moderate spring
and fall,
Comprise one of the cycles you have
taken as
Always was, and so within you’ve found
a time,
In its season to plant, to sow, to
reap, and harvest,
To save and consume. Such is labor;
such is life.
Seasons, despite the challenge of the
extremes,
Have set the structure of your lives,
and all
You’ve seen derives from them in life
and death.
You see, of course, the order of such a
cycle,
And get a glimpse of truth, and it is,
as I set, good,
And all could sustain in such a harmony
of love,
As it was before, when only such was to
know,
And so the world you see of limited
resources
Is limited only by the willingness of
each
To freely work as discerning men and
women,
Who have found the simple delight in
doing just
What they are called to do—no more, no
less.
But fallen men are not angels, nor are
your
Plans always in line with the natural
rhythms
Of my design, so often the best laid
plans
Of men go awry, fruits wither on the
vine,
Crops fail, and when they do, men
double down
On failed attempts and ever do they choose
Instead to mark their own way. Some
work,
Diligent, humble and true, and of
course,
Others do not, wishing to define
themselves
The way they choose. With no thought to
what
They are as they were made, they
forsake
All questions, and drive ahead, ever
onward
In perfect blind confidence of their
own
Direction, their own creation, their
own choice.
With no conception of my delicate
balance,
They look to blame the world, my
design,
For they have sunken farther from any
notion
Of truth, far beyond, into their own
conceptions
Formed inside their minds, clouded by
the fog
Of the artificial building blocks of
reality.
So within this false fog of real in
conflict
Some have found they can control
pieces,
Staking their claim, on what they can
grasp
Within the strength of their hands.
They see
Themselves as part, a piece, of the
conflict
That's all that fills the world. They
see the winds
That fight against the trees, they blow
the leaves
From their branches to the ground. They
see
The sun opposed by the moon, ever
encroaching
On the other. They see lions devouring
lambs,
And fighting with each and other and
those
Who scavenge after crumbs, as defining
of all
That is truth, forces in conflict,
instead of order,
Always at war, as life, fights against
other life.
There is then nothing true beyond their
might.
The world is formed they think of just
what they
Can hold and form in their capable
hands, having
Long forgotten that all was made in concert
whole,
Their eyes made blind to art unknown to
them.
Then when their grip is tried, and
their production
Stalls, humility does not result.
Instead they seek
To take, reliant on their strength
above
Their brothers, who still are holding
on
To their own pieces. Taking, holding,
defending
Become the basis of what makes up life,
and some
Have found they can take more defending
from
And for others, keeping their brothers,
safe,
Secure, through strength against
strength,
And so your Social Contract was an
offer
You could not refuse, enlisting the
strong
To protect your work from the strong,
therefore
The strong could reap without sowing,
if they
Could count on others to sow for them,
And so society was built, the walls,
the laws,
The cities, the systems, the gods, the
wars,
All built to consolidate and preserve
power,
Insurance that institutions shall
survive,
For we has come to mean more than you,
But we is a man made creation, for I
made
And love you each, and see the value I
gave
To you personally, not for what you
contribute,
But for what you are, but such
distinction is lost
When limited perspective progress
becomes
The supreme good instead of discerning
love.
The first creators of "we,"
were warlords and chiefs,
Whose descendants became kings and emperors.
Their original power was derived from
violent force.
They rose in prominence just because
they could.
Regardless of what was right for all,
they took
What was right for them, and killed any
challenger,
Who would dare raise a question, simply
replacing
The dead with a new more loyal
instrument
Of their machine, but they found force
overcomes
Only half a foe. They needed now to
find
New ways to subdue opposition, and
found
That more could ever be achieved
softly. Where
Violence rouses men awake, bribes and
promises,
Offerings of identity, displays of
power, festivals
And rituals of drink and wine,
religious claims
Of having higher knowledge, and
creating
"Thems" for "us" to
fear and "theys" for "us" to fight,
Produce unbreakable bonds that ever
last
Much longer. They found the mob could
be wielded
If they could just be lulled at once to
sleep.
There are of course many examples
I could give,
From before your records of time
began,
But I self limit what I reveal to
what you know,
And of late, you’ve found from
history a great
And ancient story of a strong man
become king.
He ruled the people of Uruk,
building up walls,
Great walls to protect his people
from enemies
Without. Like the walls he built,
he himself
Was massive, so big, so strong,
they were sure,
He was more than all of them, and
so believed
Him to be represent of the ancient
forgotten
Order, long dead, except in their
consciousness.
They thought him two thirds
fraction of god:
King Gilgamesh, the mighty, who
built the walls.
The walls were massive, tall and
thick, and reached
Up high into the heavens, a
perfect barrier
Of division, shielding those
within from dangers
Without, but also of knowledge of
what lives
Outside their walls. They could
not see any else,
So they could not imagine any else,
instead
They lived and dealt with the only
life they knew.
The people soon found that walls
have two sides.
They keep out, but they also keep
in, and though
The walls he built were
formidable, and kept at bay
Threats from others, his people
soon realized
The foe within was just as fierce.
The great king,
Having built the walls, believed
he owned those
Whom he'd saved. He owned their
lives. He owned
Their husbands and their wives. He
owned whatever
It was their work produced. He
felt it was his
To serve his purpose and fill his
wish. He took
In tax what he would want, and
need was a word
He never knew. He seized their
riches, their food,
Their resources, and when he had
his fill, he took
Virgins, daughters and brides, to
be enjoyed by him
Before anyone else. Not love, not
feeling, not emotion,
Just force did he pursue. He had
given them life,
And safety, and security;
therefore they owed him all,
And so he owned them all.
Eventually this was all
There was. The people had fallen
asleep, but one
Like you, not knowing exactly why,
just from deep
Within, she knew there must be
more. She took
Her son outside the walls, defying
all she'd known.
She climbed, not knowing she
could, not knowing
Where she was climbing, just
compelled by something
Awakened inside her, and when she
had broken
Free from those massive walls, she
prayed her son
Could rouse the rest to rise. In prayer
she asked,
“In my heart, I know there must be
more than life
Enslaved like this. It seems like
I should own
What I give, for it’s my sweat,
and my blood. Why
Should he take from me because he
built the walls?
Should I give this my son to him
to be a slave?
He’s my son, my blood, mine, and
just mine to give.
Why should my son submit to him?
He may grow,
And be as large as Gilgamesh. He may
learn to fight
As well. I’ve seen men who’ve
grown strong before,
But never rise in life. What makes
them different
From him? Why did he rise, and
they do not?
Is that your will? I don’t even
know what I’m saying,
Or to whom I say these things. He
is the only power
I’ve ever known, but still I
cannot ignore within
This voice that screams, from deep
inside, No!
If there is more, take this my
son. I give him now
To live beyond what has always
been, in hope
That something more is, and so
again can be.”
She named the child, Enkidu, and
freely gave him
Then to me to be an instrument for me
to use,
As many have and will in this story I
tell, you’ll see.
She then passed on, giving all in
faith her boy,’d
Be saved, and he was; he grew, outside
the walls,
Outside the tyranny, outside the laws,
and customs.
He was wild, but free, and knew that
I’ll provide.
He walked his path, and then when time
was right,
He challenged the king. It happened
like this:
Gilgamesh, kept his people in the dark
of what
Lived outside the walls, but he was
ever knowing,
For he had ears and eyes within and
without.
He heard of a great and wild man, of
whom
Was said, could rival to the king. He
was just
As big, just as strong, just as wise,
and became so
Outside of the great walls. "If
news of this man
Were to get to my people, what would
that mean
For me? No I must destroy him, defeat
him,
Or find a way to tame the wildness from
him,
And bring him here to be my slave to
use."
In these days all things, I'd made had
fallen
Into corruption. Even the most
beautiful,
The most pure, the most life giving,
the closest
Of all to Love had been bent to serve
the lie.
In the temple was praised Ishtar, the
goddess
They named for Love, but she, like all
Man-made replacements, embodied only
A partial truth. They knew that sex
gives life.
They knew that sex gives pleasure,
identity,
Fulfillment, open vulnerability. They
knew,
Therefore, that sex then could capture
hearts,
For men and women just yearn to be
entwined
And safe in even momentary shadows
Of the eternal bliss that once was
all, and so
They'll trade their eternal freedom,
not thinking
That more exists beyond this fleeting
release,
Confused again with conquest and
control.
The temple priestesses were used and
given
By Gilgamesh as part of his religion
of control
As he so willed. The most beautiful,
skilled,
And effective, the exquisite creature,
Shamhat,
Was summoned by the king, and sent to
seduce
And subdue the wild man threat. Her
curves
He could never resist. Her eyes would
surely
Entrance. Her smile, her smell, even
the slight
Movement of the wind blowing her long
dark
Hair gently from her eyes and
shoulders
Would shake the most devout resistance
from
Any man. She was told to leave the
walls behind,
And seek out the wild man's favors by
heading
To the place where he found life giving
water,
As I provided for him and the other
creatures.
He came there daily in the cool of the
day to fill
Himself as needed, and saw the
enslaved vision,
In all her naked perfection, open,
unhidden,
And his for the taking, and found in
her
The ancient else. His mind and heart
at once
Went blank. His need to have consumed
What before in him was always
satisfied.
She opened and he entered, and they at
once
Were changed, them both, for they both
felt
Something new to them, not as pure as
Love,
But the seeds of Love being planted to
grow
If they could just let be, for what
was past
Now just was in the past, and they
could start
Again, life anew in such a moment as
this
Forever, but they instead allowed
their past
Into this world of bliss, holding and
harboring,
Projecting their guilt onto each
other. She,
Her life till now, and he his life
from now.
There was much that they could have
shared,
But trust was needed and absent. Their
fear
Built walls between that only time
erases,
And time is something absent in such moments.
When their seven day bliss was ended,
they set
At once for Uruk, she delivering her
prize,
And he following blindly, hoping, to
have,
And hold, what she would have given
freely
If he, in bold honesty, could have
simply asked.
The wild man had only known the pure,
simple
Splendor of the natural world. The
perfection
Of creation, almost Edenic, only
missing the more
Of artifice. He had only seen the
providing
Balance of the natural order, but not
the other
Side, the partnership that love makes
possible,
But now saw before him, the heights of
just
What man can make alone, with all its
majesty
Shining through on the surface, the
cruelty
Inside, kept hidden to initial glance,
for image
Rules the shell of the world you make.
The walls
Rose up to kiss the sky, their beauty,
imposing,
Impressive. There hung the gardens, of
color,
And symmetry, reflecting the eye of
oneness,
The vision one's will imposes on all
could take
Your breath away, truly captivating to
behold.
For the second time in a week, the
wild man's
Breath was taken by what his eyes had
seen.
But behind, inside, the walls, he saw
the cost
Of such beauty, symmetry, and order.
He saw
The iron fist of oppression, first
hand,
On whose strong back was built the
wonders.
Their eyes turned down, hollow, as if
they could
No longer see the sun, their bodies bent,
broken, bruised, and betrayed, made
not by
Any whip, but instead the much more
devious
Floggings of stagnation, trapped in
just what is,
With no potential ever for more: Hopeless.
On this what should have been a day of
joy,
A wedding feast, for two had found
each other,
Man and wife, seeking to be bound
together
Forever in matrimony, in Uruk, such
things
Had cost, for Gilgamesh demands his
take,
And planned to take her first, for he
claimed
All hymens were his. Enkidu, seeing
this,
Was filled with unexplainable rage,
for in
The plush perfection of nature, he had
never
Seen anything so vile as greed,
displayed
In such an arrogant exhibition of
power,
For no reason other than pure
domination.
Overcome with rage, the wild man,
stood between
The king and his claim. Like a stone
he stood,
Blocking the king's path, the king's
way, the king' s
Rightful privilege as king. He became
himself
A wall, showing all, putting irony on
display,
And Gilgamesh attacked, grabbing hold
Of the Wild Arms, as they wailed
against him.
They grappled, each trying for
leverage,
But found their strength was matched
in each
Other's balanced blows. Dust was
flying, stone
Columns rippled, as the two mountainous
men,
Pushed and pulled, throwing, bending,
twisting,
Sweating, grunting, they wrestled,
until when most
Of their strength was spent, and
considerable
Time had passed, to them what was a
stroke of luck,
A stone, caught the wild man's foot.
He stumbled
Fell, Gilgamesh, taking the upper hand
Drove his knee into the wild man's
chest, pinning
Him at once, upon his back, upon the
ground.
The king demanded that the wild man
yield.
He continued to seek a way in from his
back,
And Gilgamesh rained blows upon his
face.
Bloodied and barely breathing,
spitting blood
And teeth, he just would not yield,
wouldn't stop
Though pinned, he fought in vain, and
never quit.
Through his bloody swollen lips,
limped the words:
Mighty king I have fought you, and
fight you will
I still until you relent, and let the
married couple be.
What you have done is not right, and I
would die
Fighting you, if I need to. My blood,
my sweat,
Every breath I take will be put to use
to stop
You from this so brazen act of
domination,
Go ahead, you might as well just kill
me now.
The great king had never been
challenged, never
Been touched, never had he been
shaken, or stirred
From himself enough to once consider
others,
And their mere existence. Never had he
seen
Such resolve, and for what? The men he
knew
They had simply always been eager,
compliant,
Flatterers to him. He only saw them as
pawns
To be protected, sure, but more to
serve his wants.
But now, having fought, having felt,
having sweat,
Against, he saw for once a glimpse
outside
Himself, and as it dawned inside his
mind,
His hands released their firm grip
from off
The wild man's arms, and slowly did he
stand,
Removing his knee from off the Wild
Man's chest.
He lowered his hand, and helped him to
his feet,
And pulled him close, and grabbed him
hard again,
This time not to break his will, but
in full embrace.
I know you, the story of your size visits
my dreams.
It seems I knew you would come one day
to me,
And shake me from myself, shake me
from all
I've known before, that you would make
me see
That I, though stronger, richer,
having more men
At my charge than you, am not able to
simply
Cast my will at you unchallenged. I
see that you
Will fight me, and I find that I do
not wish
To bend you to my will, but seek to
join, to find
A way forward together, as if my needs
do not
Rule yours, but are ultimately tied to
yours together,
With no solitary way forward where I can
be complete.
Rise with me, and I will no longer
fight against you,
But hope to fight beside you from this
point on,
As friends, unlike any I've ever known
before.
And so their bond was forged: wills
intersecting
With each other, at first cause
friction,
Seismic ripples, threatening
destruction,
Yet, finally arrive together at rest,
new beings
Joined, and no longer at odds, having
come
Through the conflict, eternally tied,
bonded.
Continental in their shape, size, and
affect,
The world at once heads in a vast new
direction.
In this new found world of friendship,
the king's
Eyes sought again outwards, beyond his
walls,
To new frontiers of trials. There
lived outside
The walls, he made, a legendary beast,
Humbaba,
Whom he had always longed to hunt and
best,
But knew he had no chance to win
alone.
Now, though, with his friend firmly at
his side,
He felt there was nothing he could not
do,
There simply was no price he could not
pay.
He never once thought of what he stood
to lose,
For often even victory can come at
quite a cost.
The two friends faced the fierceness
of their foe,
Together. With their strengths and
weaknesses
In balance, they achieved their
victory, quickly,
And with their prize, they made the journey
home,
But in reaching sight of the walls of
Uruk, trophy
Held high between them, the lifeless
body
Of the beast, Enkidu's legs faltered,
and he fell.
The king dropped the lifeless beast to
the ground,
And tried to rouse his fallen friend,
but there
Was no response. He lifted the wild
man upon
His shoulders, and carried him into
the palace,
Laying him to lie in his own bed, his royal
chamber.
He stayed by his side, unflinching in
his devotion.
He prayed. He paid medicine men, and
holy priests.
He brought the vision, Tiamat, to
entice, and lure
Him back to life, but his body lay limp,
lifeless.
He tried everything in his power, but
he failed.
He had no power over this enemy, for
there
Was no wall high enough, no shield
strong
Enough. He held no knowledge in all
his head,
Nor heart, and there was just no
weapon to wield,
Nothing made from iron that you could
smelt
Sharp enough to stave off death, and
when
It comes, sweeping and sure, it is
devastating,
And makes no distinction between king
and slave.
When life fully left the Wild Man's
body for good,
The king would not accept it, for in
Enkidu's
Mortal rest he saw his own: The king,
who knew
No weakness, stood face to face with
his own
Human vulnerability, longing for that
missing piece,
The ancient harmony. He felt that
somehow
He could attain that life of endless
possibility,
But only knew to use force. He set off
at once
To find a way to conquer this foe
death.
Legends had reached his ears of men
becoming gods,
For all men, beyond their conscious
mind,
Remember the ancient harmony that once
was,
But of course only in pieces, and
though unable
To force the tune, they write in tales
their dreams,
Sharing in their imagination and myth,
the hope,
And desire to achieve the life that
was, and seek
To share the right ritual, the right
act, the right
Combination of deeds, that would grant
eternal life,
But those stories reflect also their
blindness, for they
Reveal that life is only a set of
conflicting forces,
And if a man could simply find a way
to wield them,
He could alter them, with bribes if
necessary, force
If possible, sacrifice, as last
resort, or praiseful
Worship, for such forces are jealous,
vain, and fickle:
They must be, for you humans are, and
you fill in
What you don't know, with what you are
yourselves,
But this ignorance promises anything can
be changed,
So the mighty king thought, there must
be a way.
I can beat that monster death. In desperation
he left
His walls, this time alone, without
his fallen friend,
He never returned inside the walls he'd
built,
But in his absence his legend grew
greater. The tales
Of his journey to the ends of the
Earth seeking
Eternal life captured the seeking mind
of many men,
And so they cast his adventures in
tablets of stone,
Lapis lazuli, buried beneath the base
of his walls,
A voice of hope to other seekers, but ingrained
The system of conflict and control
even deeper,
But his leaving left a vacuum, another
theme
You'll see repeating throughout this
story, and as
Will happen many times in the cycle, the
space
Was quickly filled, for in institutions
of conflict
A strongman's strength is only relative,
and when
The head is removed, the snake
survives. A new
Head is grown, and replaces all that
stood before,
And the cycle circles around another
time,
Entrenching even stronger. The people
of Uruk
Knew nothing besides oppression. They
knew not
The possibilities that knowledge of
truth,
Its faith and love can give, no one
yet had sought
To ask, to believe enough to ask, to
doubt
Enough to ask, to dream enough to ask.
And This tale was just one of many. I
could
See the heartbreak of my creatures. I saw
The anguish. I saw it there on the
faces,
In the tears of my people. They longed
as all have
For what is always there, had always been
there,
Could always be there, just for the
turning,
For the asking, but I knew the time to
teach
Was coming, the time to plant the lasting
seed,
For in the darkness of Uruk, generations
later
One man would stop, ask, believe, and
walk
In faith, to become the seed, the source
for all,
Who would come after him, a father for
all.
