An Oriental
Tapestry
Civilization
The
Scavenger had his first taste of meat.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
The Hunter
dug his first hole in the ground.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
The Farmer
planted his first seed in the field.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
Civilization began.
The Worker
laid down his first brick in the wall.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
The
Soldier made his first ax, his first spear.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
The Potter
produced his first jar of clay.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
Time simply ran.
The Priest
sang his first hymn in the temple.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
The King
waged his first war of personal glory.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
The Scribe
etched his first epic on a clay tablet.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
The story went on.
Yes. The
story went on,
and it goes on still,
even today,
even
as I etch these very words
in the fabric of time.
The sad
story of human civilization.
The story
of wars without peace.
And peace without meaning.
Of gods
without temples.
And temples devoid of anything truly divine.
Of inventions without inventors.
And inventors run by their own madness,
to the vanishing point.
To the vanishing point.
Of actions and reactions.
Of
movements without really moving.
Of words without effects.
And sounds without echoes.
Of trumpet calls,
monotonously calling
to
the dying.
To the dying.
To the dying.
And amidst
all this,
the Artist stands alone.
Perhaps a bit tired of blessedness.
Perhaps a bit bored with monotony.
Perhaps,
even, a bit shunned
and misunderstood,
as
indeed he should.
As indeed he must,
for that is the very essence of his creative
will.
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