The Wound and the Wonder

I walked the long day’s length upon the way of the world. Evening fell. I was weary, wounded by the thorns of lust, greed, envy, pride, jealousy, gluttony, and rivalry – each step a record of the path’s callous toll. Black clouds had gathered in the sky, with thunder and lightning. Suddenly, I saw an inn in the distance, on a hill. I climbed up the path to it with earnest effort.

As I opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind me, it began to rain outside. The partly illuminated interior was almost empty. Perhaps a dozen people were scattered around at various tables. Some were dozing, while others were busy in conversation, eating, and drinking. I took a seat on an old wooden chair by a table. I had some food, and as I finished a glass of drink, I grew sleepy – possibly lulled by its effect and my weariness.

I had four visions, both bleak and happy, in which the past, present, and future fused in a timeless unity. Shades of forgotten faces flickered like candle-flames, and voices long forgotten whispered secrets carried by the wind. For an instant, I was neither traveler nor stranger, but a ripple in the river of all that ever was and ever would be . . .

First vision:

Figures proceed

each bear

the wounds of nails;

drops of blood

darken arid earth.

Paths stretch,

countless palms raise,

each split by similar

crimson gaps;

an endless Stigmata.

The wind carries a hum

a voice of many,

a scrape of sighs;

the corroded hinge of pain

sways open.

I stand among all,

my wounds fresh,

my agony the same;

and earth swallows

what sky can’t contain.

* * *

Second vision:

I weigh grains,

count coins,

put the measure of bread

into questions;

but what I neglect,

what I always forget,

is to ask the self

about the void

left within.

I carefully keep,

and hold,

the slow gains of days,

but in the end,

as I stretch my hand,

I only find

nothing remains.

my questions are blunt,

I know not how to stay,

or why;

I pause for an instant

between breaths,

now shudder at the sound,

the groan

of my soul’s anguish.

* * *

Third vision:

The walls

are they walls?

they’ve no end;

they mingle into radiance,

without divides,

into boundless ether.

The sea

does it still murmur?

perhaps beneath me;

or perhaps sound itself

has ceased,

save only the whir

of my fading pulse.

I’m adrift

not on water,

not in air,

but in sheer absence

of strength;

is this death?

mind’s last metaphor?

a space

without doors,

without windows,

without the need for both?

The light

is this light?

can it give life?

no, it simply is;

but I’m not,

no longer,

nor ever have been.

I soar

neither near,

nor afar,

but into the heart

of the unknown;

there only stays

the yearning,

the question –

who’s there with me?

* * *

Fourth vision:

Who’s there

standing by me,

bright without light?

your smile’s so familiar,

as if I’ve always known it!

Have we met before?

have you been there with me?

have you walked on stones

cold, your feet bare?

your hands protruded

not to receive, but to give?

I thought pain was mine,

also my fellow humans’ lot;

and yet I see

your palms pierced,

ribs battered with wounds

of spears.

But lo!

bit by bit now

the wounds fade

along with every agony;

and my spirit

merges into yours

in the new morning.

The cross was wood,

still wore our flesh’s cry;

but no more now,

as without the clay

of human form

that burden’s gone.

Stay there, my friend,

for you are that to me today,

as you always have been;

the door of Heaven

lies open,

let’s step into the golden world,

together.

When I woke up, it was a bright morning. The radiance around me was mesmerizing. I left the inn and moved ahead on the path, but the way had changed—pleasantly transformed. The melody of the golden nightingale was enchanting, the perfume of blossoms intoxicating, and a sweet breeze blew gently. How beautiful the world was! I felt fresh, I felt new – a new me. And in joy, I walked ahead . . .