søndag den 8. maj 2011

Dans mon jardin

Sometimes it seems as if the story of Adam and Eve was not merely a bygone tale from afar, but rather an everyday reality that manifests itself most evidently with every passing day. Earth or the world as we face her is a garden of Eden, perennially green and perennially adorned with lush, light and love and nourished with a sense of quintessential mastery. Man and Woman are the characters in this purlieus, a pair of anomalies in the natural world. Free will and the ability to rationalise are the emotional tools with which they wander wistfully into the world beyond. These are both their vices and vexations as well as they are gems and glistening pearls. The forbidden fruit is scientific “advancement”- our reckless desire to satisfy our curiosity and the consequent inability to pursue a means of soliciting good instead of pursuing comprehending the passing of the wind. With rationalisation comes ignorance and disbelief, a betrayal of instinct and an urge for falsehood in the name of clothing. Clothing here is not merely the desire to baffle, please, dominate and deny through ones attire. On a meta plane, the desire to clothe oneself is a tailored intent to mask the truth, to run from instinct by controlling and filtering it through the fabric of garment.

Far from the maddening crowds and whistling winds

She lies. Vexed perplexed, A maze in a haze in sins

The falling petals of spring’s candescence brush gently upon her skin

Radiant like the swerve of a swan on still waters

Subtle to the touch, their bloom is the subject of sheer bewilderment,

Their benediction to the warmth beyond, a well-hidden jest,

Oh how flirtatiously they do twist and dance with the whistling wind

The falling rays of noon’s subtlety kiss her flush cheeks gently and sedate

Poignant like the twisted tips of jaded winter twigs

Serene in being, their fleeting movements evoke a stare, a stun, a wonder

The purlieus is drenched in peace, draped in quietude

Steadfast against the blue beyond, the encroaching constant of the pitch

In this bliss of Eden there are no truths, just sweetness and light.

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