Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Libertiad Book I


Audio File: https://soundcloud.com/peter-atkinson-17/libertiad-book-i


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.