Mycetic Magic

 

A few words. 
That's enough sometimes.
The more important is intonation, rhythm, mood, state.
Your life flows like water
you'll never not enter twice.
You're in constant change all the time,
but you never notice it.
Only old acquaintances, who sometimes emerge from the past,
would say:
"Dude, well you've changed, damn it!"
or
"You're almost the way you were.
Just a little bit getting gray."
You accept variability as a gift.

Squirrel peels nuts. 
The stream is gurgling.
The raven beats the air elastically.
Your wife's hands go through the buckwheat.
The little girl sings her grandmother's song.
Pan-flute sings the endless song about Ands.
Icelanders record their sagas.
A monk in the Himalayas meditates on unconditional love.
Lotus blooms in the swamp  and it flowers know no dirt.
I'll drink reviving water,
for the dead water I've already drunk abundantly.

They ate dried mushrooms. 
They drank water.
That was the true communion
with the body of the Earth and its blood.
It has been said long time ago
that "everything has already happened
and nothing new will happen again
and everything stuck, and creativity bogged down
and their whole culture is just banal grinding of old myths".
And then all of a sudden
they were taken to new worlds through the Star-gate,
which is on the top of the human heads.
The new Tao was leading them somewhere. 
But at the end everyone returned to the old tricks.
They got quiet. 
Lights lit up their eyes.
That was the Wisdom mixed with a sadness.

 - But you are not from here.  I recognized you.
 - Don't make it up.  I was born here from an earthly woman and her husband.
 - No! So be silly. I read your heart like an open book.
 - And what?  I read the fate in your eyes.  You're either on thin ice or in deep water.
 - We must go farther. You and me.
 - To disappear together?
 - No.  I found you. You're the Tao.
 - Are you sure?  You don't know what a trouble maker I am.
They smiled.  They got up. 
They put on backpacks.
They entered the sick fog. 
They vanished.

I wanted to write a haiku, but it turns out a tanka.
I began writing Rubaiyat, but it turns out a sonnet.
So I'm a bit scared to write a novel. 
I'd better turn back to mushrooms.



 © Copyright: Valentin Luchenko, 2020