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They made the wilderness their womb,
the lairs of beasts their motherland,
and in their eyes, the fire their god
had kindled from a spark of spirit flint
embedded in their souls...faced the terror
of an irony millenia would never understand.

What was it, spurred their zealous hearts
to speak the voice of the Invisible Divine?
What stony pre-Damascus pathway
led their bloody feet out of the mire
of history and to the portals of the king?

It seems to be the beasts
we may not send away.
These hairy men knew them too well,
and lay beside them,
heard their pounding blood,
their breath,
their agonies of birth;
they knew the bond of consciousness' embrace,
the seeds of love emerging from a common weal
and spreading as a tree unites the earth and sky.

They felt the flow of passion
that could only grow within a silent intellect,
a peace,
and a creative sigh.

And then they preached and stormed complacency.
To every wasteland they were bound
in stubborn zeal until the chariots came down
to bear them to our dreams,
a corridor of voices streams them on to us,
scarce listening, scarce reaching back.

For now the voice is ours, the messengers
within our flesh, still ready to proclaim
their thunder birthed out in the wilderness,
a feral peace, still burning in our hearts
a strange, compelling legacy of love.
                    ~

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