He would pour water to a glass, and contemplate its play against the sun’s ray,
interrogate every molecule fighting its freezing, the symphony reconstructed in his synaptic dexterity and choice,
Having a choice to confront the Mystery, or capitulate, obviously a man with spirit is compelled to confront.
Sol or Luna, golden or ashen hair,
Causing phenomena to be painstakingly classified
As cis- or trans-pontine,
Safe or dangerous,
Usual or dangerous,
Depending on the bank where we were born to make our stand.
A water-diviner, I wonder whether one of these would assist us?
We keep our Secrets; ah, we do… as scars to act as a warning to us.
These events have the flavour of water, until shown in their correct causality, then taking on the vividness of wine, and that is the Revelation. Pertaining to a capture (perhaps we humans are too ensouled)—
Blood and water,
At which he sat himself bolt upright in his chair and exclaimed:
—I am the slaughterman leading Mystery to the abattoir, who, truly, shall love me for that?
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When No One is Looking by Hannah Shilling is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.