On Songs of the Soul

Verily, it is difficult to transform one's depth into one's height. For that there is need for much inversion, introversion and isolation in hermit's caves.

It is only in the rigorous and cold mountain air of the spirit that one may contemplate his soul. Far above the clamor of tumultuous thunderclouds and the foolishness of April rain, one is free to see himself as he is in a clear and perfect mirror.

Such clarity speaks in the language of sparkling wines, reserved only for the most reserved and select: those who know the secret of life within the body, and its parable of exaltation and elevation.

Forgetting myself, remembering myself, so I spoke and prayed thus to my soul before the rosy morning sun:

"O my soul, you sing to me in my solemn nights and poverty, when the envious moon is too negligent even to illuminate, as my nightengale and singing bird of pain...

"O my soul, how often have I come to you in tears, and yet your sweet melancholy always brings me to mirth! You soften even the hardest hearts with your gentleness, for in your eyes there is always the glance of stars and eternity. But despite my happiness, I rarely thank you...

"O my soul, you speak in riddles too soft to hear. And whenever I sought to cast my net upon your colorful shells, you always scuttled away like bashful crabs into the depths of the sea.

"O my soul, in you have I drained my sorrow and hopes and maledictions, and as an amphora of the sun you always blessed me with your secret golden happiness, you murmuring fountain of my highest hope!

"O my soul, you creep into my solitude as a nimble, testing stealthcat. You do not offer your friendship so easily. A creature of silence and craft, you tread on lion's paws, and walk with grace even upon broken glass. You are too proud even for hunter's ploys: innocent in your stalking, your craft is a game and not a murder.

"O my soul, you do not bed too easily with the soft. Accustomed to hardship and long journeys, you rest in peace even amongst caltrops and thorns. You endure enmity, pain and malevolent storms, and yet you are no fakir. Whereas most only bear their crown of thorns, your crucifixion speaks of roses and benediction.

"O my soul, never would I dare to pluck out the heart of your mystery: we know too much of each other. Upon the porticos of the temple we always walk together, as lovers walk, through stone archways and quiet gardens. You know the sacrament of taciturnity and silence: you meditate even when you speak with idle words. You always stupify the loquacious with your bright silence.

"O my soul, your heavenly pranks always soothe my delinquency: I, the most sarcastic and somber of delinquents! Too often have you visited me in prison for me not to dream of your smiles. For you sanctify even dead stones with your happiness...

"O my soul, you gave felicity and eloquence to my words... I, a stammerer and defiler of the Word! You offered honey to me as a somber growling bear, a hybernating beast too long accustomed to the isolation of cold mountains.

"O my soul, you always wake me toward my dawn, for you are my dawn. When I was but a nemesis and flitting ghost, you demolished all nocturnal day-dreams and insubstantial silliness, and instilled in me your holy, gay sarcasm.

"O my soul, you have brought me to tears... I, a warrior scarred by too many battles and the stings of poisonous flies. Even the greatest warrior has his tears, but rather would he bleed first then cry in fear of blood...

"O my soul, it is through blood and knowledge that I am sanctified: the altar of my affliction is founded on funeral pyres. The song of the soul is always heightened through martyrdoms and slaughter. But little do people comprehend that kindness is the greatest slaughter...

"O my soul, you are the gentle precurser to my Spirit ― your star-gowns and shell-tressles prophecy the happiness of a divine marriage. Upon your immaculate finger rests the ring of a perfect matrimony: such a serpent swallows itself in its wisdom, and all things gravitate to it as their sun.

"O my soul, you speak too candidly for candy ears: therefore you needed cleverness for gaping jaws and dumbshows. No one has the ears to understand your songs, therefore you blush when the deaf hear you as muffled tones. Out of shame and bashfulness you glow in your dawn; your petals shine too purely even for their dew. In your simplicity you have always called unwonted attention to yourself. Blushing from your flood, you seek not to put the blighted drought to shame...

"O my soul, how shameless I am before your holiness and sincerity! Your sanctity does not proclaim itself in words ― therefore your speech runs more honest. And how heart-wrenching is it that before you and shrouded gods I must still only be a poet?

"O my soul, how often have I wanted to kiss you, but for my blasphemy of wanting to bless the most sacred and beloved...

"O my soul, you are too kind even in my coldness: you forgive me even when I have forgotten you. In dark rooms have I hid in my hardness against myself, and yet you always sought me as my redeemer, with honey-combs, truffles and roasted lamb. You always lure me from my shadows with tender songs toward the golden playground and gymnasium of the Spirit.

"O my soul, whenever I have been error and confusion and dreadful futility, you always came as my harbringer and necessity: my becoming into purpose out of accident. You shatter all musty tombs and rotten sepulchres. As the hammer of my will, you reprimand me with gentle blows.

"O my soul, in dreams you came to me as my flock of sparrows; your flight heralds the advent of lions and doves. Such are the divine emblems of ultimate love and sacrifice. And what lover would not sacrifice himself for your sacrifice, which does not even ask for anything in return?

"O my soul, despite paint and absurdity, and the noise of too many parrots and circus clowns, I always distinguish your parables and silent inclinations. It is too easy to become small and miserable in crowded doctor's rooms: but you always kill time with your innocence. Your graciousness absolves all childish need for magazines and trivial newspapers. How could I want to read anything anymore but your words of fire, which inoculate my ashen heart?

"O my soul, you shatter my hopes and dreams for comfort and security, and always draw me to secret, blessed paths. Although you take me into hell to view its razor gardens, how could I not endure them in order to be with you? You are tranquil even before fallen gods, who have long since burned out their stars. You shake hands and drink a toast to the devil, because you are too overwhelming in your kindness...

"O my soul, you have always been a gambler: you play dangerously with divine dice and dice players. You do not make small bets, but give everything your all, because you always cast golden hopes before your deeds. In your confidence you know the result of all things, even when they be on a razor's edge.

"O my soul, you guide me as my lantern through wild and barren deserts. You draw my wisdom from exasperated wells with your water-divining powers. You are fortune and fortune's strife, my destiny that shatters all destiny, for you write my true name upon a perfected stone..."

Thus have I contemplated my soul upon the mountain, high above the foolishness of April rain.

But even after I concluded my prayers and solitude, my soul once again came creepingly unto me. She always knocks unexpectedly at my door: thus have I the need to constantly remain vigilant and overawake. And after our usual greetings, she whispered this wisdom in my ear: "Once a fool, always a fool ― regardless of the season."

It is not only in April where one is seasoned a fool, although Spring initiates much foolishness for our season. To those who look for antagonism and strife from this fool, thus do I have to say unto you... April Fool's!

Thus speaks Ding Dong.