Sinking into the softness of the soil,
The mystic meditates on the movement,
Timid and terrible, of trunks and roots,
Shooting up slowly, grasping the ground like
Fingers gripping flesh in the throws of love.
Communing with the muses of water,
He hears the current cleansing the sickness
Of his soul, beat down by intense passion,
Stricken with the sorrow of abandon,
Seared by cauterizing torrents of flame.
There is a wind that chills the sinews of
Broken bones and rattles cold to the core:
The mystic revels in this solemn breeze,
A callous crack like a swift slap across
A face of existential expressions.
Always alone, never alone, never…
Music, epic music, a serenade
Plays from the harp strings of the pastor king,
Resounds from the crystal halls of heaven,
Matches the rhythm of the mystic’s heart.
David J.W. Inczauskis, SJ