Page 58 - GALIET HEAVEN´S SCROLL IV

For how dreadful is this endless exile, this homelessness, forever seeking, through millennia the omnific Word, the spirit’s true nature, its oneness, its true and sweetest north, abode of abodes in Elysian Fields or Paradise, as we, absent from the self, gods, and God, and nature’s and cosmos’ ways, glimpse at the world, its disenchanted cosmos, from our cosy, yet shadowy labyrinths, mimicries of Plato’s cavern, and their widowed windows “granting us an instant of light, as Mr. Borges says, “during the course of each blind day.” Thus, we seek in earth and sea, at office or home, a horizon of a Word beyond, or a Gnostic return of sorts towards the One, unknowable Him, or towards Her, fallen Sophia of the Divine Spirit Light. Or?
How insatiable this cosmic nostalgia, ever yearning to return to a transcendental reality, to the essence of beingness, or to an age of primordial innocence, of paradises, real or dreamt, or, at least, return to the mother’s womb, or to Artemis’ Temple, or to a beloved Ithaca, when our disenchanted souls, wearied by diurnal and logical ambulations, and nocturnal conflagrations, tempest tossed by war, lethal poverty and famine, natural calamities, persecutions, and caravans of death, hear the Word of bounty and plenitude in a miraculous clearing of being, beckoning us to a Promised Land of Milk and Honey, or at least, to the least of the least, to a dreamy Lake Isle of Innisfree, whose ululating trees and honey bees, say “see” and “Sí,”
I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build, there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
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