the garden

                                                                                     Other echoes

                                                Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?

                                                                  t.s. eliot_the four quartets

there is a garden in the north

where rivers flow to bring forth

dew and mist that wet air condenses

for the tired gaze to heal the senses

with cristal leaves and talkative shades

that the body restores in imaginative adobes. 

It is a garden that dreamers have found

when with skin's open pores they ground

source of pleasure beyond simple touch

and with clogged limbs dangling shy blushes

 they hold the melody of that hidden breeze

that solid forms refreshes in crimson hazes 

for the dreamer to chase in awakened dazes.

Many there have their true self placed

to have every single gesture expressed

in the lulling conviction it would lead

to the manifested dome they gazed on all along

where hopes and deeds are into one flesh embraced

and body is reconciled by the whole it has conceived.

Not all those that this garden met

in its blossoming air their mood rest

for on the line of its untraced edges

revolving shadows crawl and fledge

that the sounds of the inhabited place

confuse and detune with no recovering grace,

and the beauty that once was for granted

reveals coils and scales the therein dwelled

that with sudden rumbling the vegetative boon

in the light of perception all its dangers spun

crowding the vision that by illusion is consumed.

Where is the rivulet that of its eternal spring

once sung with soft and unintrusive hymns

that dreams sustained without the jag of its peak

to which drained jaws the sickly teeth now confine?

Gone is that spring forever;

not hiking nor indomitable discover

shall ever recover the garden in distress.

The eyes that were set ablaze

on every glass blade in its glare

inwardly turn with sightless mourn

to scan and pervade isles of blood

through veins echoing the deceit not understood.

With thorns and spines senses are wretched

and the trust that was delivered and craved

cancerously grows in its self-consuming norm

to agglomerated around the inflicted venom

the new fear in the illreal fabric of trust

that the sun had no care to make just.

To no avail are voices in beauty spoken

if in faith the garden is permanently shaken;

no more the chirping sparrows

the joy to their save nest allow

and silhouettes of circling hawks

in the still shade severely hark;

no more the touch praying fulfillment

is given on wings spreading to air figments

as in the strings that winds tinkle

the spider in its web lies in light winkles. 

In darkness and consuming disease

plunges the ego that soared to please

its displaying lymph hight to meet

sky offers with burrowed cuticular stem.

How absurd and insignificant it seems

that the garden not by any other source

is found but by the ego there sprouting its fruits  

and nor other spring it was sustained by

imagination that plants and songs to its soul 

could be mirrored and portrayed. 

Not for reaching it the garden had its purpose

but for the hearth to be sided 

by earthy plumes that disclose

spumes for the dreamer to be clothed in,

where gestures and voices higher passion add

to shallow and empty array of time momentum

that flares generations in the paramount colosseum.

No other garden is to be found than the garden within

root imprinted on the seed undisclosed in pain unforeseen

that bolts and pulses with the possibilities

of a garden where shall gem its uncertainties,

where the scales armoring sorrow and fear

and vine inwardly clutching to cloth the gear

will their double folding pattern entwine

in throbbing life that reveals and defines

the sacrificial clay of androgynous spear

that nature strivings perpetually consecrate,

blending to the caressing mist the quill

that rises above peaks and canopy to drill

altitudes where the fire bird's birth will distill

over dried bones bare to snow reverberation

arteries clutching to the resurrecting harmonies

sheltered in the shades of the regained gardener.