A small snippet to share.
There is a tale,
Of a world far made,
Who leaving left,
And letting go,
A new life gained,
for an old
On a path he dared,
His name was H’won. He was an ordinary man. A man of simple means who left all he had and all he knew. Not because of what he was, but because of what he wasn’t. He ached for something. He yearned for something more. Something other than what he was. He didn’t know what that was, not exactly. All he knew was that it was out there somewhere and that if he could find his way toward it, he would surely find his dream.
So far he wandered,
and forest’s floor.
sea’s spreading shore,
Where mountains veiled,
stark, snow steeped,
Towards those peaks
his path was
to bring the things
He had heard rumors. And stories. And tales of tellers, whispered told. Folk lore, ancient and sung in songs that sung of an aged sage, who had lived for all the long seasons of his life alone enshrined in the vast solitudes of those snow-veiled peaks.
Threads of talk
as fire light
From travelers cold,
All too tired,
to move or
For much of all,
Till fed and warmed,
And sang their songs,
And told of him,
the one he
Believed his path,
They were just scatterings of men. Wayfarers. Wanderers who came and went. Who stayed and slept and were gone again with morning’s rise.
Who gathered in,
Till morning’s light,
All blown and flown
Gone their ways,
So he listened all he could. To the songs they shared. To the words they left behind, that lingered like the fire’s ashes. He gathered them up. Carried them with him. Always believing. Always hoping that he would find the One.
Though how it was he could not say,
or where it was
or on which
But that it was, was all each day,
had he to keep
So on he went. Ever further. Searching. Hoping. It was hard, so very hard. Sometimes, in the aching chill, his mind felt troubled. He worried. And questioned. And he wondered if he was wrong.
If he had come too far,
If the path he took,
Was for him,
A liar’s truth,
But on he kept going. Bent low in the scathing, ice-daggered winds that howled and shrieked in gusts of violent outrage. Buffeting. Pulling and tugging the rags that flailed around him. Dragging him down. Yet still he struggled onwards. Upwards, ever higher into the cold, and thin, breathless air. Panting. He couldn’t stop. He was desperate.
Ever up and further
far in the night’s
to summits capped
on a path that lay to take him.
Till there upon
he found at last
an endless void
he did espy,
And his heart’s hopes lay there breaking.
For in that night
bowed back against
he came to where
he dared not
A cliff’s edge stark, forsaking.
So there he stopped,
held hemmed in
by skirts of summit
with nowhere left
that he could
To claim his prized awakening.
He was stuck.
Hopelessly unable to move any further.
And his heart then there beat faster,
though he knew not what to do,
but he knew it was an ending,
for no way led past or through.
No left or right to turn by,
only back or forwards seen,
on a path that now stopped broken,
by a cliff’s sheer edge, ravine’d.
It dropped in a vast, fast falling,
to a ground too far to see,
and the biting winds did taunt him,
at the edge where wavered he.
There was no way to ford it,
and he dared not try climb down,
his trek seemed now all over,
so he turned and looked around.
He stood there stilled and silent,
not sure of what to do,
and looked out barely able,
to accept what now he knew.
That all he’d sought was finished,
and his hopes for more lay left,
on a path that led to nothing,
but a journey home bereft.
He bowed his head more lowly,
against the taunting chill,
and turned his path back homeward,
and looked around him till.
He saw as if by chancing,
a thing at first he’d missed,
a place that lay dark shrouded,
in the ice and snow and mist.
For hidden there was sheltered,
a small and narrowed space,
a lee that time had weathered,
etched deep in the cliff’s bleak face.
And in that dark sat waiting,
a man of ancient core,
the One that he had searched for,
the sage of legend’s lore.
The traveler’s heart beat faster,
And he quickened in his step,
and moved in toward the cavern,
bowed low with bated breath.
And the old man seemed to know him,
and looked up to made a sound,
with words just barely spoken,
said, “Walk past what you’ve found”.
The traveler then looked wary,
for the old man seemed to stare,
at the path from which he’d turned from,
and the cliff that ended there.
“You must be wrong,” he murmured,
“Surely, that you cannot mean,
for I’ll fall if I go that way,
and die to all I’ve been.”
But the old man stirred no further,
and his eyes now closed there stayed,
his words were stopped and silent,
and the snow upon him laid.
Nothing more from him came coming,
though the traveler waited on,
but all that was, was silent,
and the man that was, was gone.
In a while that seemed forever,
the traveler, lone and grieved,
stood up to leave the shelter,
and slowly turned to leave.
The path still lay before him,
ahead or back to choose,
which way his steps would take him,
his life to live or lose.
Back home from whence he’d ventured,
to be and there to stay,
or a cliff’s sheer edge still daunting,
and to death that there did lay.
He chose the first to follow,
not what he couldn’t see,
a path that stayed less travelled,
a him that wouldn’t be.
And away he went slow shuffling,
back down that path he’d come,
the wind and ice still chaffing,
his hopes for more undone.
Till home he came as leaving,
back as he’d been before,
kept safe from things not happened,
not less but nothing more.