I prefer the myths to the dry histories, where truths come and then crumble away
I prefer the myths to the dry histories, where truths come and then crumble away,
For history is written with a quill of feathers, but the myth, eternal, beats with wings of iron.
Mythology dresses lies in dazzling robes that over time are clothed in truth,
And it gives birth to a wisdom that time can shape as the river shapes the stone.
Intelligence, deaf and blind, listens only to defy or to nod in assent,
Thus the message, like a drifting ship, is lost on misunderstood seas.
Instead of welcoming the word as a guest to the tables of meditation, it would tear down the messenger,
And we, mortals learned, have lost the art of sitting with the message, of cherishing the story.
The fault, it is said, lies in the arms of that education which molds us into valiant soldiers of certainty,
Not into wise seekers of questions, of meanings hidden in the folds of the everlasting myth.
Our world stubbornly struggles to tear the thick paper of deep understandings,
Poisoning us with dogmas, forgetting in the procession of days that all which was once a lie may bloom as the apple of new knowledge.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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