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Combatants of Hope
Last night I wept helplessly over a spring breeze that played in my hair years ago (…they say everything can be replaced…) and over all truths that accept the consequences, and for the purity and the sincerity that rose out of the seraglio of the soul and pledged fidelity, and for the strong words that plotted courses and paths to follow, and gave us a home in the wind (…come gather round people, wherever you roam…)
Brethren of Clouds And the tears ran down my face, but it wasn’t a broken-hearted and desolate weeping, but a strong and mighty, grieving the scattered and lost, rejoicing over the wild, and celebrating the life that has been granted us in space, on Earth where we may live a while in wonder in the swivel. And it was a weeping over the Great Mystery and its hidden signification under wide quarters, and a joyous weeping over the water and the clouds, over the birds and the trees, over the children that approach me in the midst of my life, displaying confidence, entrusting me with an enormous responsibility before the Human Race and the Great Spirit, making me a Brother of Clouds (…if not for you…) Those Caught in Locked Positions And I sobbed for gunned down presidents and prime ministers, and for my little brothers and sisters who are left to starvation and thirst in distant lands, while we keep asking ourselves if we’re our brother’s keeper (…the line it is drawn, the curse it is cast…), and I wept for those who wither away in racist trains of thought and the iron jaws of prejudice, and for all caught in locked positions, those petrified in pride and fear (…he was a friend of mine…) The Distant Lands And tears of joy trickled over the affectionate and trusting gaze out of children’s eyes of those that come after, and in tenderness over the tired and bent backs of those disappearing on ahead towards the distant lands, thinning out like smoke and haze (…may your hands always be busy, may your feet always be swift…), and for the multitudes already traveling the embryonic worlds in the wonder of wonders of prenatal existence, and for the great crowds roaming the hypothetical worlds, waiting for a chance of entering existence through the categorical imperative’s rendezvous of man and woman, father and mother; children of the stars and the scions of longing. A Thief in the Night And my joy and weeping concerned those, the diamond-eyed, who do not tire in their spiritual resistence against the evil in the nooks of the soul, and its cruel manifestations in the material world in the shape of smouldering ruins in hot desert wars; those who rise up against the betrayal of man, for those watchfully awaiting that moment that comes like a thief in the night (…let me die in my footsteps…). And I cried for captains and generals deployed in the war of wars, for no one craves for evil and loneliness, and my heart ached for the young men and women who’d been ushered by circumstances to a place and a time where no one should be (…only a pawn in their game…) And for all the introverted mourners and witherers who’ve been abandoned by those they loved, and for all those who loved the ones they abandoned (just a table standing empty by the edge of the sea…) Into the Corridors And I wept for all those who vanish into the corridors, and those who just carry on a job, peeping wearily out of the conventions, since they’ve abandoned hope for a real life in timidity, which is another term for the condition of the living dead. House of Pain And my tears fell for the young and hopeless, who’ve wandered through the lovelessness of the House of Pain, to reform schools and prisons, where no one wants to head, and their souls cried for Mom and Dad. (…all inside the grounds of the walls of Red Wing…), and I wept fot the hobo searching through the garbage cans, withdrawing, gnarled, though he recalls his mother like was it yesterday he sat on her warm lap with his head against her bosom, and he was a beloved child (…he was only a hobo, but one more is gone…) A Rock of the Hardest Granite And I wept for the drunkard and the debauchee, who’d never expected to drink himself out of the family of man, and who craves for alleviation and stability, and keeps dreaming of a rock of the hardest granite, and longing in the mind of drunkard is just as beautiful and pure as the dreams of a schoolboy on the last day of the school year, in the soughing of psalms and the fragrance of lillies of the valley, where he stands with his hair plastered down with water, freshly in love, the way of schoolboys, and he was not aware that he would sleep in drunk cells and derelict buildings, and he grasps his dream in his intoxication (…I’ve been a moonshiner, for seven-teen long years…) The Adventurer and the Gambler And my thought went to the adventurer and gambler, who always rode into the sundown and vanished, to show up later, to face his destiny in some saloon with a bullet in his back and a dead man’s hand like a fan across the table, beside the half filled whiskey glass (…for when you pull a Dead Man’s Hand your gambling days are up…) and I wept for the gambler who saw his chance but let it pass, or who lost it while the words rattled around the walls and the furniture was sucked out through the door as if by a tornado-created underpressure, leaving him alone in a room that expanded unto a void as high as the sky and as wide as the horizon (…if you see her, say hello…) The Idea of Hitchhiking – The Combatants of Hope And I didn’t forget the Hitchhiker and the idea of hitchhiking past smalltowns with empty streets lined with closed stores and locked bicycles through a wintery state of the soul (…well I’m walking down the line…). And finally, when I thought I was short of tears, I wept even more over Hope and the loving Combatants of Hope, who rise out of a state of emergency of the mind, pointing things out to us, making things visible that we’d forgotten even though we’d always known, in the archetypes, in the fairytales, in the myths, in the nursery rhymes, in children’s games and in the depths of our souls, and for sure he is one such Combatant of Hope, Bob Dylan, and for sure he bursts the levees of the tears, and for sure I roar with laughter and joy through my tears, and I know that the truth shall make us free, right there within us, where we carry it! (…and the tide will sound, and the waves will pound, and the morning will be a-breaking…)
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