The Sun and the Shores of Time

Sitting on the shores of time,
after I’d awakened to the sounds 
of migrations, erosions, tides;
the songs of eons, the pulsing of life,

the voice of the deep-heart
did cull my chaff from my wheat;

and there by the waves
I knelt down and wept,

for I had to throw my mask into the sea,
my only worldly possession,
my inheritance;
and it was fine and well-crafted,
and precious to me;

still I threw it, 
and watched the water devour it.

There were waves of liquid,
and of the temporal,
and there were tears
as the ocean inside me came out
to meet its mother;
even then I went mad.

But after the noontide of this age,
I felt the hand of the Sun
cradle my face,
and I lifted my head,

and the Sun asked:
“My child, why do you weep so?”

And I said:
“I’ve thrown away my mask. I had to.”

“Ahhh, I see,” said the Sun, 
“this must have been quite the mask.”

“There is no other like it,” I explained.

“Then let me tell you why I’m happy,”
said the Sun, 
“for every day, 
for more cycles
than even you can comprehend, 
I reflected off the ocean 
and shone on the shores 
and raised great forests 
from the reactions of my heart. 

Yet only now can I see your face,
and I have missed you greatly.”

And there by the waves,
I laid down and slept.


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