A misty Moon,

ubiquitous, yet anonymous,

a symbol of all that comes, wanes and goes,

reborn, growing, glowing, fainting,

vanishing to come again.

A keen observer, rarely noticed

unless on some night we look up

struck for some mysterious reason

by its whispering light.

Unrest seizes the Moon.

It hides behind the alert clouds.

Here on earth life goes on.

After the sunset a brief respite,

and night ascends, and with the night the Moon., its saga renewed, unrevealed, untold.

If you happen to sight it in its luminous aura

stop awhile and speak.

The Moon will be confused

but do not let it be sad.

Eager, responsive, it will smile.

Let it touch and feel you.

Perhaps it waited for this moment too long.

Sushama Karnik.

17-06- 2024. 05-13 AM

GOOGLE.COM

sesiondemadrugada | Atkinson grimshaw, Leeds art gallery, Art uk

 Qown pace. Some call her mother some woeship her . place her in a temple with a small lamp

Te water flows in abundace. Nobdy has ever thought of looking at her wasted flow, not thought of giving it auiet f[ows the river; never will she the little stories

of joy and grief That's the way of deastimy

flowing at its 

Not thought of bending her and shift her way to bring her face to face

with those staying far from her flow, those thirsting for a look of her, those in the wilderness missing her quiet dreams of  of sailors taking her to reach the farthest mod where she will find peac in the lap of the sea.

Quiet flows the dawn 

and with the dawn  flows the quiet river. 

The river is neither aware of destiny, 

nor does she know that time moves

and makes her move.

Stories are born on her banks and left unread.

Like destiny it's not in her to pause.

The cause and the effect flow as one single stream with her.

You may think of loss or gain

but in her flow they are one

because she knows, she must flow.

Some call her mother and stand on her shore;

pleading her to speak.

some call her  divinity

and place her in a shrine.

She will flow at her own pace, 

in abundance, never in need of joy or sorrow,

Her flow is unstoppable.

But not ignorant of your life ,its needs and deeds.

Until she comes in sight of the sea

her journey long and forlorn.

Do not forsake her 

when the sky thunders and in fear 

she breaks her bounds.

Take her waters to flow into canals;

help her reach the far out lands that need her

and she'll bless you before she follows

her destined path to the sea.

 Cutting the Golden Bough, the Siren warns,

is the passport you carry to the underworld.

The tree knows the gravity of these words

which Aeneas in his passion overlooked .

The ritual is repeated time and again and Aeneid

with access to the Pan's knowledge, watches.

The truth unfolds.

Each phase enacts the story of man and woman's love,

the fire that consumes unrelenting.

The consuming fire of love,

the kiss, the mistletoe.

Sushama Karnik.

Tighe O'Donoghue Ross

Ssretdnopo57h1c1h h70i 4832ga17ahrm006,t206mu461ligt1M82c7ah  · 

CUTTING THE GOLDEN BOUGH…(final)

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Sushama Karnik

“In antiquity this sylvan landscape was the scene of a strange and recurring tragedy. On the northern shore of the lake . . . stood the sacred grove and sanctuary of Diana Nemorensis, or Diana of the Wood [fertility goddess of Classical Roman tradition] . . . . [in] this sacred grove there grew a certain tree round which at any time of day, and probably far into the night, a grim figure might be seen to prowl. In his hand he carried a drawn sword, and he kept peering warily about him as if at every instant he expected to be set upon by an enemy. He was a priest and a murderer; and the man for whom he looked was sooner or later to murder him and hold the priesthood in his stead. Such was the rule of the sanctuary. A candidate for the priesthood could only succeed to office by slaying the priest, and having slain him, he retained office till he was himself slain by a stronger or craftier . . . The post which he held by this precarious tenure carried with it the title of king [King of the Wood–Rex Nemorensis]; but surely no crowned head ever lay uneasier, or was visited by more evil dreams, than his.”

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Françoise Dhulesia

I like how the Aeneid and the Celtic cult are beautified and adorn one another under the epic grandeur of your narrative.

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