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Some men die to survive

	the Hard endures
the Soft succumbs   stews in juices  reproduces exults
			disappears
the heartless breaks cracks crumbles
							drags
   the Ephemeral down the ravines of the also-ran rivers
								               dissolves
		explodes

 	The myriads and myriads who breathe but spent air
the haemoglobin of genetic change
	all the ephemeral dust of pain   
                                                            destruction and damnation 

Now and then one hears talk of everlasting Oneness
 	of undying Truth and Salvation
whose whispers linger longer than the astroidal rain’s howling phantom winds  holocaust blasts in the ears of ovens
	pent-up change piercing permanence

Some men die to survive
		nothing remains of them but the hollow word they shaped and filled with sense  common sense
	the word that thinks creates the Void

	Even the Compassionate Prince’s plain truths grow limp and fall on hardened ears
				his tooth
		a colossal myth
	piercing the sky
				common words of common sense
fetched in Essenic straw-buckets of Dead Sea scrolls
							whose words survive
 		on the lips of those who cannot lie
	who remember only the Law
						words will uphold
what Truth will never connive
	mind-full messages torn from tongues long silent
    come crashing from mountain-top roofs the frozen trek down tricky treacherous slopes
	words meander through slots of seething ice-packs
	the Wanderer surrenders with squeezed-out bated breaths
			the burden of ages
preserved on the lips of the deathless errant Everyman
	handed down by the Pauper-Prince
            	become the common man who strolls through untrodden paths  
		the simple obvious truths which never stifle 
                                                                                                                   throttle

How many stark truths make up the ultimate whole Truth	
	will Truth out
				no matter what

The naked Truth is not for Man
	he needs his truth cloaked   clothed 
     to be unraveled
 made a mystery of by mystificators
          by authors who only know how to speak with their hands
accompanying gestures of effete moral preachment skeins
	embroidering the skies that shift and shatter with the times

Some lisp the Truth
				heard only by the few
	and made to look all anew  
afresh  bestowed given as life-renewing elixir
  and let others connive whose skills lie in making It ring true
	in caverns beyond lost horizons	
							by starlight
    gathering mists hugging low the Dead Sea growls 

Take the worshipful apostle myths away
       a hundred  a hundred and fifty odd years gone 	
           the myrrh the high-quality incense
		the barn-birth and the Three Wise Men
led by a trekking star
     the carpenter’s intestate Holy Virgin
		the Sermon on the Mount
     the bared cheeks
				and you still hear Shakhyamuni 
voice not doubt on the Cross

	Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2016
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