a burden of history in his blood.
He thinks he is old, but he is young,
like his ancestors, full of life, waiting
to spring, as the Pascal Flower blooms
on the tumuli of the Vikings, kinsman all.
No, he is not old, nor the nerves, the
muscles in his face which reveal pain
and a tendency towards melancholy.
Today, he thinks he may be moving
towards despair, but I sing to him,
"Know, this, too, will pass."
How can I reassure this man of God,
that his life is just beginning, as he
feels he is clinging to the edge of a
doom escaped by his forefathers?
Did he have to imagine redemptive
suffering? Could he not have been happy?
Happy for a few years, a moment,
knowing love, knowing a creativity
beyond words, in a smile, a small
touch, a look of understanding from
a far shore? Some choose to live
in the sadness they know, rather
than reaching out for the happiness
they doubt could be theirs-His angel
whispers, "Do not be one of those
fearful ones. Be brave. Choose life.
Look towards the light, look towards
the light." The well-worn rosary beckons
and even The Mother calls, "Be brave,
as you have never been before, Dear
One." Long ago, on Gog Magog, one
of those fathers of old settled a deal
with the locals, and his progeny took
the Book from the monks and learned
the new way of the foreign God. So, now,
reach out for something foreign, a book new
with words which float off the page like
Oxlip in the wind, silent, full of peace and
history, colorful as the old magic of the
priest who hid in the small chamber,
when those later fathers hid him; he
rests still, blessing the children's children,
thankful forever for hidden vestments,
the way-bread brought by the lady of
the house who was never afraid. What
happened to those brave, brave genes?
A hedgehog scurries across the path,
not tame like the ones under the porch in
the land of the Sumortūnsǣte, the oldest
state, not set up by my people but, perhaps
the boy's, whose Saxon face reminds all
of the continent. No, my people wandered
through the gardens of the Břevnov a bit
later and with less glamour, painting the books
which, packed in leather, made the way to
the settler's by the sea. Not all were celibate.
And, one chose an aristocratic wife of
the tribe of Benjamin. Happy days lost in
the New World. So, as he prays, head in
hand, I wait, seeing beyond the seas to a
newer place of peace and contentment. Yes,
we suffer, but we do not take on what is not
ours to take. The Bridegroom chose that on
the Cross. We assent to His Sacrifice, and
to do more is just plain pride....the angel
whispers again, "Be simple, be humble,
be the man God called you to be, even in
the end of days." Like the plowman finding
the treasure in the field, leaving all, following
the Mother of the Holy King, one must leave
one's own ideas, one's plans, one's control
over one's history and let the angels inspire,
illuminate, lead to the vocation to which one
was called from the beginning of time. He
raises up his head and listens, perhaps, for
the first time, trusting both the natural and
the supernatural, feeling for the first time,
human in order to be superhuman. He recalls
some words of his youth, vague, like the waves
in which he indulges, clear and bright waters
of life. His Latin stays, and then uncurls the mystery
he himself does not want to embrace.
consilium, et linguam, et oculos, et aures,
et cor dedit illis excogitandi,
et disciplina intellectus replevit illos.
Creavit illis scientiam spiritus,
sensu implevit cor illorum,
et mala et bona ostendit illis.
Posuit oculum suum super corda illorum,
ostendere illis magnalia operum suorum:
"Decision time," states the angel. "Now or
never, choose life, choose happiness. God's
Champion holds out the prince's crown to
you. Will you insult Him by refusing the call
to be human, to become the creature the Father
created you to be those not so long years ago,
on this hill of treasure, you mortals call Sutton Hoo,
past the mounds of Passifloraceae, past the
gates where the horses no longer run into battle?"
