Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Allegory of the Wind

Will the grass oft speak of the trees when the wind blows over the mountainside?
Oh you little ones, gently swaying in the breeze, look to your elders under whose boughs you have grown; twas they that sheltered you from the downcast snow, but shadowed you beneath their glory. Thus, how oft will the Grass speak of the Trees?

Be plentiful and merry, chipper leaf of grass, give to your own while the season lingers, else comes the bitter winter, whereunder all green grows pale. So blessed and happy, for a life so short, as ought it to be; Grass that grows beneath the stones is pale and cold and sings no song for its mother earth. Will you not look skyward and laugh? Your time is too short to dwell under rock and foot. Cover the land, how splendid and merry, give to the sky your beauty while in your prime, else in passing seasons, earth grow grey and pale.

Will the trees oft speak of the mountain when the wind blows through the grass?
 Oh great elders, look to the mountain on which you stand, with leaves rattling as the zephyr passes o'er; Tis the shadow of the mountain's mighty form, that guards you 'gainst the tempest's fearsome wrath. Yet, how oft will the Trees speak of the Mountain?

In the dark and cold embrace of earth, your roots were nurtured and grown, yet twas the light of sun that drew you out to reach, Great Trees of the Mountainside. Pardon the wind in passing, that it should linger about in your arms, yet look skyward all, and ne'er cease to reach for the skies.
Seasons unnumbered, affliction often suffered, time as a whisper has no meaning - for you who live longer than man. Look down upon the grass at your root, ne'er they ever to live half-so long. One season for them all, and then their time be done, but their seed shall last longer than the root of the Great Trees on the Mountainside.

Will the mountain oft speak of the wind when the trees rattle and the grass

gives sway?
Oh great giant whose days none know, heavenward your gaze is spent and ageless your foothill stay; look to the wind that brings you sign of the tempest passing near, for it wages war against your little ones, else you halt its way. Still, how oft will the Mountain speak of the Wind?

Mighty Mountain with face above cloud and storm, foremost the guard of land, and guide of rain to feed those all, every root that needs earth still... Great seasons have you endured, stolid, unshaken, worn and weathered; beaten and scorned, yet for the reason to lift others nearer the sky. Beneath your base a fire is kindled, burning deep, yet ever resting, though rest it may til all else is done, when then to rise and shake land and air. From the earth you came, so separate from the sun, rising to bask in light of glory - to greet every growing dawn. Great Mountain with gaze out upon tree and grass, first to tempest meet, and keeper of sun's last ray, so to let light descend on earth in final day... 

Will the wind oft pass through the grass and trees on the mountainside?
Oh you who is the wind, wandering to and fro from pasture and peak, dancing between branch and root and leaf; twill always be that you look upon the trees and grass, while you sojourn upon the mountainside, for these may yet have what you seek, lest from them you turn away. Then, how oft will the Wind pass through the Grass and Trees on the Mountainside?

You, who to yourself are wind, begotten of tempest's wrath, the only to rest on mountain face and still glide between blade and bough unstayed. You go from the foothills to the peaks, ne'er dwindling too long, yet for the tempest's break you do flee, both to him and from. Twas the tempest from whence you came that continues your journey on, yet pause a moment and listen here, to the tale of grass-green, rock-deep, and bough-long - for all they have words for you that echo to a timeless dawn: From the Grass of the foothills may these words be kept; waste not your time while in your prime and delay not to serve the skies. From the Trees of the white peaks, an ageless chorus they call; cherish the small things that are in your keeping, for twill be they who carry your song. And from the Mountain-wise with his face so high, these words a whisper to the wind: Do not forget your purpose here, and what in this brief moment you have seen, for the story goes on and we are all one small piece.

An Allegory of the Wind