The
inner meeting alone in truth brought
The
joy of the fall and the turning again that
Formed
the labyrinth map that led the way
Into
the lit counting space, which told in me.
A
real map it was, and just as really hid
This,
the finders’ chart, which told the heart
The
location of its treasure where it was
Hidden
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Near
my home the winding stony road
That
upward travelled into the hills
That
passed two gates until the saddle
And
then, not the well-worn lower track
From
there, but the unmarked higher one
Which
wandered up-wise through the bush
Till
it levelled out and the trees grew thinner
And
at length came upon our harbour’s view
Where
beneath a hard marked stone there
Was
hid a jar; in there the little book: the
map
Which
told my tale and divided me asunder
That
the truth be known . . . . . . . . .
Which
for ages and for generations had been
Withheld
. . . clouded in mystic mystery
And
by our secret pride which was all our
Sin
and barred door which banned us
From
the lively presence of the Light.
The
grave is not the gate of death but of life.
*
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