Third Letter From Zeno

Her laughter was a starburst, a 4th of July explosion in his heart. When he walked with rivers, as a child walks, there was no time for a harvest of tears. To claim to know the universe is an arrogant attempt at divinity. God asks for love, men lay death at his feet. He sang to her a love song that was like a bird is a silent forest. The late rising moon lights the darkest night, surpassing the stars. God fights his death, but, in his love and his passing, sets us free. The cherished virgin vile mankind has made a target. When he feels the wind blow, he knows the planet turns. The sun fires priceless diamonds on a frosty morning. If she loves his song, he knows the raintree blooms, the seed of another year. His neighbor's roof blew away. Of its destruction, he will build his home. The orchid waits for men to depart for it does not fear the snake. What price must he pay for his personal tyranny, for forgiveness? Power becomes a club but it should be a question. Ah yes Rabi, the hill is but a failed attempt at heaven. We climb to never reach. If one song of his wafted to a single ear, that was all he sought. The fear that he is nothing is a prison where he, safe from scorn, hides from your eyes. The sky holds its breath and waits for an embrace. The green parrots came taking the sunflower's bounty and never asked nor thanked. A melody he hears in the wind tells him the work is not yet done. There is a solemn hymn drifting in its rushing. Where the dove waits, beside a silver gate, the jeweled peace beyond is a psalm. To take more than the need is to devour one's own soul as the earth grieves. A vanished love leaves an airless vacuum, years without breath, then the lungs fill. He swore to remember her kiss and still he does. But some forget there was a pledge. If he could be content with his philosophy as the sun sets, he would embrace the night. We can grow wisdom out of pain; a world of professors nod and bow. He curses the clouds that he creates because they block the sun. The paradox is silence for we all hunger for the words. If he was the servant of a god he did not know, then what a great surprise in paradise. He waits for her to share with him the evening meal and all eternity. The stream of thought, that comes from the eternal man, awaits a weeping sky, reunited in stardust. Deep in the pond of memory lie all his loves and all his love beyond all words.