|Passage to Life
The fragrance of the rose opens a door, a secret passage, and I slip through; on the other side, the noise and nonsense of the world fade away. Tears of relief fill both my eyes!
Beyond hopeless now and forever never, I am out of hell on earth; I am soaring, headed to another place, hope again hopeful, senses now sensitive, even keen ...
I remember now, then shudder, at the disruption and disorder—mayhem, Macbeth, and murther—of the other place.
I remember now, then shudder, at the "dude" covered with tattoos and the "babe" with nearly bare bubs, who now live back in the land of posture and pretense, emptiness and style where everything is "awesome" and "cool" but nothing really is.
I remember now, then shudder, at the roaring engines of industry and war whose anger can be heard no more.
I remember now, then shudder, at the drones and moans, the terror and turmoil that are too wide, too grotesque to fit through the door.
I remember now, then shudder, at the loud mouths of the bullies who are probably being loud and bullying elsewhere right now.
I remember now, then shudder, at the grabbing hands that are probably grabbing someone else, somewhere else, right now.
And I remember now, then shudder, at the insatiable greed and need that are only a bad memory now, a nightmare from a past life spent in hell, by the cauldron and Hecate's brew. Oh, the horror, the darkness in the heart there.
Back then life at its best was a melody played badly and on the wrong instrument; at best it was Charon and Cerberus wishing you well on the other side. What we perceived as life back then was actually death dying for the final time, transfiguration no longer possible.
Through the door, the secret passage, with the fragrance of the rose, now all is open spaces and fields and lush green grass; woods with tall, leafy trees and a breeze; streams snaking through ravines; waterfalls whispering the secrets of water falling; and meadows with larks and lupine looping.
Through the back door, now all is the melody of the clarion song sung high on the mountain top; the harmony, the chord, composed of river, valley, meadow, and mountain blaring their individual notes of joy together; the soft voices of the breeze in the trees; the soothing words of springs speaking eternal words of truth to hard granite rocks below; and pebbly brooks babbling comforting baby-talk to sleepers sleeping and dreamers dreaming in monster-black night.
And through the back door is the garden with the rose, the fountain and the butterflies, the laughing children with dancing eyes.
My friend, let the garbage take out the garbage where you are;
Let the dead burry the dead where you are;
Let the unborn give birth to themselves where you are, or let them wait their turn to be reborn.
Where you are, there really isn't a there there anymore. So please come away with me now.
Through the door, the passage, the fragrance of the rose, there is the lute and the lyre; the fleeting notes of the flute; mandolin-mad nights of merry music and love; passionate poetry pastimes; tales of whales; wind in sails; rhythm and rhyme; meter without master; la marteau sans maître; ligne libre; homme et femme libres; amour libre; libre libre ...
Won't you please come through the door to me now? Let us dazzle the night, dance with the stars.
Let us teach the moon romance, a naughty trick or two; let us be vandals and light the sun on fire, evening the score for Icarus' plunging into the sea!
Let us find the lost child in the grass. Searching with you could be such fun, such delight!
Inhale the fragrance of the rose, my dear, duck your head low, then squeeze through the door. I have found the secret passage to life!
By Louis Martin