Portrait of a Lost Door
It
was from a far country I had come---
Where
endless illumination came out of darkness:
Out
of what wasn’t understood---till one did---from it
There, one
was of no age, neither, young nor old
One
just was and always had been
And
of no size, large or small, but the right size
Perfectly
fitting that place where one desired to be
Here
was, no language or wisdom
That
we could understand
Some
say we lived here before ever we were
For
we have ever been
And
say, too, that we knew this country
When
we were very, very young
But
should one not have retained
The
slightest memory of it
It
would not diminish, even so,
It
was within one not as memory but as life
My
ability to cherish it now and tomorrow
A
fact---a gift---
In
all my yesterdays it was in me already and ever is
There, the smallest child
Was
wiser than the wise and prudent
Another kind of language was there
Thought strange and foolish here
As incomprehensible as snow is to fire
And as a jewel is to the blind
The
more I have of the wisdom of this world
The
less I have of the other
For it
was of a quality
That cannot be measured by gain
But
by loss---because it was without end
A
bird can fly by
And
I can see it as a dart of dark or light
And
it is gone
But
there I am not separated from the beauty I see
I
am with it---
And
no matter its speed---alongside---
One with its---life
Leaps, that are, here impossible
There
are, a matter of course---perfunctory
I
was with all I saw and had always known it
In
the touch of beauty
The
sense of sight took on a look of---
Having---possessing---because
one had nothing---
A
sense of knowing what couldn’t be known
In
dwelling in the source from whence it came
And
as for sound---
The
site of it was ever in the midst of love---
And
sight in the centre of peace---
And
all that was of their marrying there
Was
as back-to-front as dark and light
And
no man knew it that had not life
It
was from a 'far country' I had come
Where
endless light came out of fearful darkness
Darkness---because
total light could not be understood
And
so would not fit him who had not life---
Yet
beauty had once been his to give as he saw fit
He only returns to life and light who only knows
He is dead and dark
*
In
the breath of loveliness
There
were no shut places in my country---
No
places where the taken-air could not escape once
Its
beauty had entered in the living open heart---
It
flowed out in measured lines of airy darkest Light:
Truth---that
having worked its life---within
Went
everywhere---and on and on, so,
Gathering---in
its gifted freedom---
All
of solace that it could ever meet
And
so sure---the laden breath---of no shut place
The
loveliness never faltered as it went on
To
enter every rested heart it met
Show
the taker’s face---reveal the giver’s heart---
The
influence of beauty reached more inner-homes
Touched
more inner-souls of men
Worked
more wonders in each and every one Than we could ever imagine
*
And of the door
No man yet had entered
through it
That of his, own volition
Had tried to enter in
It was the mystery and
paradox
Of the distant country---
Its door was not made of
any
Substance comprehensible
to the world
And visible only to them
that took the trouble
To let down their wings---
Their tightly held
selves---and let go all pride
It was the nearest door
and the one most distant
That was the threshold of
the inner glory
And the beginning of the
way of life---
Once opened---
But the door before us the
hardest to enter in
Love alone would reveal it
and open it inside
Of silver---refined in a
thousand fires it was made
Inlaid with gold---sealed
and purified
Of the substance of
down----light as snowflakes
It would seem to be
wrought
Such as could be plucked
from the breast
Of a goose---
One of ‘foolish’ trust---and
with a broken wing
Led home---held in a
child’s arms
Of its hinges---
It pivoted upon one’s
cross---
The door swung on joyful
expectation
Balanced in a cup of faith
Imbued with patience
Its handle---
True courage in adversity---
That turned tragedy to glory
And made of every difficulty
An opener of gold---
The possession of the weak
Made strong in surrender . . .
*
All my simple portrait of---a
lost door---
The door in the tree of life
That took me through---
That opened in my loss of me
It was the way of entrance
waiting to be found
Drawn in pastel upon every
sunset cloud
Painted in sunrise---the
oils touched within---
In every drop of silver mist
Its reflection shone---
Its picture in every blade
of dewy grass
And upon every lip of
truth it kissed
*
From: ARKIAHH DREAMING; The Ragged Writings of Everland; Volume Three
