Wednesday, October 12, 2005

A Village of two faces?

I drove through Lymm this afternoon, a posh yet unpretentious place, the product of centuries of growth and decline. So close to Mother Nature, yet so lacking in life. Maybe it was the mist and rain, the damp and cold, the wind and rain, the wet and cold that drove the living into their tomb-like homes. Closed doors, locked doors, curtains drawn to hide from the outside world, like cowards wrapped in comfort, escapees trapped in another jail. What of the life of those who haunt the fields on this drab, drab day. Excluded from these cells, they walk alone, but in the company of trees, of hedges, of fences which have weathered these extremes. They may be wet but they are warm with the lashing gale on hooded heads, in tune with season, time and age. 

The steeple pierces the low-blown clouds, wrapping this Cheshire world in fast-moving grey. The Lymm Damn, that still flat lake protected by its slopes and woods, its surface broken only by the blown leaves and by those still small ducklings rippling like a chain as they race for cover. Dark, black, murky, even haunting is the feel of that spot. As night approaches, there is no good here. Away! And so as Autumn grows, I ask, “Quiet, empty, still, where are they all, the people of this place, hiding in the remoteness of their homes?” Their trimmed hedges, lawns and borders betray a people chained to garden habits, like robots, automatons in a marble world. 

And where is nature? Hiding round the corner? In that field, waiting its chance to return and once again go soft and green? Patient, untidy yet at peace!

2 comments:

Dalva M. Ferreira said...

Life?
The land of grief and painfulness.
Mankind?
A blend of aches and sorrow.

Oh thou, life, naught be your being,
For what do I have to find your hidden secrets?
I want you not as of this very moment,
I will not be deluded by you humble world,
With all your colourful deceptions and tricks.

One moment you show me the gardens,
Full of flowers in variety of colours,
And intoxicating scents,
And butterflies in various colours over the flowers…

But the next moment,
You show me your talons and teeth as flower thorns.
Flower is naught but delusion,
The bare fact is nothing but the thorn,
Colour is naught but cold white light,
And all these butterflies are nothing but degenerated worms!

Well come forget it all,
There would be no antidote but death,
Death will overtake me one day,
And today could be that one day,
The reborn could get started any time.

Much could be learned from phoenix,
Into fire could be thrown this dusty body,
And get burned expecting another birth.

Surrounded by the worms,
Under the white light,
I can light the fire now.

Oh fire, the flame of thou will purify me,
Surround this impure body of mine,
Amorously and amatory in the warm hands of yours,
(In the warmth of which, there is no deceptions),
Make cold ashes of my body,
And puff it into the wind.

Later on,
No name, no infamy will remain,
Of me and of ashes of my ever loving heart…


From the blog "All men should be brothers" by our friend Farya.

Legabal said...

So what is your God,Chidgey?
I like Tanhauser. I like Castilla. I like All, thi ist my God.Regards:) ¨.¨