This is another novel by Coelho that proves that love is not an obstacle to materializing one’s dreams, but a force urging the lovers to conquer their dreams and find God.
This article is written by Mel. Please visit the blog Mel’s Space to read the rest.
By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept
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What is the essence of love? Was it brought in by the fleshy apple of my eye, beset by that glance of my lovely fate in the flesh…there set in motion by the outward beauty of a woman, sealed by the sweet lips, ignited by the roaming fingers that touches the new and unknown flesh, opening the portals of my soul and stopping my wandering heart?
What is the essence of birth? Was it manifested by two aroused tissues of flesh that became one…there in those selfish swellings of desirer swirl’s the beating hearts of my ancestors, the beginnings, the endings, and the crime of creation?
What is the essence of life? Was it conceived in the lust of my fathers giving and in the passion of my mothers receiving…there in that hot-salty moment was coupled a spark, a mixing, a mingling of love and lust. Is this the very impassioned act of God?
What is the essence of passion? Is it the opening of the vein by the cold steel to drain the poison of life. The cowards heart made steady, placing down his own soul. Or the Deity’s trans-manifested heart from the omnipotent to the animal mind and taming the wild heart…so true innocents maybe brutally sacrificed, nail to the tree of life…for my just sin?
What is the essence of mankind? Was it pre-brokered in the dim-lit dawn before that first day, did legions of winged midget souls hover there … setting down our story in some dreamy stone of a another realm. So that angels may cry over its complex scenarios, because they know fleshly hands will bleed out the ink needed to write our history. There did the great Host cast the die of fate into the mirror image of God thereby making us all shake hands with the Devil?
What is the essence of culture? Is it a commonality of images that inspire, raised in some stones or set in
pigment by the monkeys little hand or those lovely free flying notes of music from the mad dreamer’s mind that drains into my ear letting my minds eye free to relate to the human condition. Maybe its the word made manifest and concrete for the greater good…the sending of ideals transported by electric pulses of energy gone out over the web seen having all the weight thereof, unseen?
So the great question, what this is the essence of a man? It was fixed in the darken cambers of time itself, for I am that hairy little monkey touched there by the Deity’s hand broadening the matrix of my mind and setting the true animal free to manifest the beast that we all are. For I will piss on Prometheus fire and dine on his liver…for I am man!
Poem by Stevie J. Edwards. Copy write. 23rd June, 2010