There is no road map for this terrain, no compass that could offer up a clue. You attempt
it with your leather bound books, the oral traditions that became the foundation of our
demise. And if The Book had never been written we would have held hands
and helped each other through the dark. Rising together out of the water, baptized
by the Sun, anointed by the Moon, eternally blessed by the wind
produced by stars. Tall grass to cradle, dust from the Earth reveals
to us the tracks of a tear and the crease lines of a smile. Finding
our way in the tinkle of bells and the brashness of the gong, the meal of grain
ground and turned to paste, baked in clay beneath the coals. The communion
of a shared fire, the echo of love down through ages. Pathfinding
through the reedy banks
boulders strewn like marbles tossed by giants, the honey colored wheat
in the fields and the reeling spectacle that is the Sky. Clouds rush and point
the way around and around, the journey etches the indelible blueprint
in one unbroken line upon the hungry skin of your soul.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019
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About theminstrelscitadel
In search of courageous souls who aren't afraid to dig a little deeper and have a conversation about all manner of things. Rant, rave, debate, discuss... let's do it!
Pathfinding
There is no road map for this terrain, no compass that could offer up a clue. You attempt
it with your leather bound books, the oral traditions that became the foundation of our
demise. And if The Book had never been written we would have held hands
and helped each other through the dark. Rising together out of the water, baptized
by the Sun, anointed by the Moon, eternally blessed by the wind
produced by stars. Tall grass to cradle, dust from the Earth reveals
to us the tracks of a tear and the crease lines of a smile. Finding
our way in the tinkle of bells and the brashness of the gong, the meal of grain
ground and turned to paste, baked in clay beneath the coals. The communion
of a shared fire, the echo of love down through ages. Pathfinding
through the reedy banks
boulders strewn like marbles tossed by giants, the honey colored wheat
in the fields and the reeling spectacle that is the Sky. Clouds rush and point
the way around and around, the journey etches the indelible blueprint
in one unbroken line upon the hungry skin of your soul.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019
Like this:
Related
About theminstrelscitadel
In search of courageous souls who aren't afraid to dig a little deeper and have a conversation about all manner of things. Rant, rave, debate, discuss... let's do it!