03-26-2015, 10:38 PM
The One on the Hill
There stands a hill,
at the bottom of whose slope is a city.
In that city,
was born I.
As an uneventful childhood passed,
I would espy, at the top of the hill,
against the silhouette of darkness, a lonely mysterious figure.
Most of the denizens of the city,
did not seem to mind the persistent gaze of the lonely one on the hilltop.
Days flew, years passed.
I grew.
As circumstances changed,
life got unbearable.
I found constant strife all around.
Individuals against individuals,
one set of irrevocable interests pitted against another.
Families becoming hunting grounds for abusers,
communities struggling in pain, conflict and fathomless alienation.
In the haze of automatic haste,
once in a while, I would gaze,
to the top of the hill, and there,
the mysterious one with the constant gaze.
One day, turmoil wracked the city.
Its people had turned on one another for some reason.
My mind and body, were affected in the violent rhapsody.
There I lay,
broken, bleeding and helpless.
I was beaten and I had beat.
I was broken and I had broke.
I was abused and I had abused.
This was not a place for the lone sage.
Lying there helpless and guilt-ridden on the ground,
my breath raising the dust under my nose,
I tilted my neck upward.
There, on the top of the hill,
the lonely mysterious figure.
But this time, I caught the gaze of the one on the hill,
with my own piercing eyes.
The one on the hill remained unmoved.
In the meeting of the gazes through the haze of the burning city,
was exchanged the wisdom of futility and duty.
I moved away my gaze and waited for help to arrive.
But I knew deep within me: the gaze of the one on the hilltop,
follows inexorably its own ways of persistent inquiry.
There stands a hill,
at the bottom of whose slope is a city.
In that city,
was born I.
As an uneventful childhood passed,
I would espy, at the top of the hill,
against the silhouette of darkness, a lonely mysterious figure.
Most of the denizens of the city,
did not seem to mind the persistent gaze of the lonely one on the hilltop.
Days flew, years passed.
I grew.
As circumstances changed,
life got unbearable.
I found constant strife all around.
Individuals against individuals,
one set of irrevocable interests pitted against another.
Families becoming hunting grounds for abusers,
communities struggling in pain, conflict and fathomless alienation.
In the haze of automatic haste,
once in a while, I would gaze,
to the top of the hill, and there,
the mysterious one with the constant gaze.
One day, turmoil wracked the city.
Its people had turned on one another for some reason.
My mind and body, were affected in the violent rhapsody.
There I lay,
broken, bleeding and helpless.
I was beaten and I had beat.
I was broken and I had broke.
I was abused and I had abused.
This was not a place for the lone sage.
Lying there helpless and guilt-ridden on the ground,
my breath raising the dust under my nose,
I tilted my neck upward.
There, on the top of the hill,
the lonely mysterious figure.
But this time, I caught the gaze of the one on the hill,
with my own piercing eyes.
The one on the hill remained unmoved.
In the meeting of the gazes through the haze of the burning city,
was exchanged the wisdom of futility and duty.
I moved away my gaze and waited for help to arrive.
But I knew deep within me: the gaze of the one on the hilltop,
follows inexorably its own ways of persistent inquiry.