Two sides of a coin. The common phrase to compact all details in opposites, all details for each side. Two sides to everything. Good and evil are indeed illusions. Good or evil may be the cure to the disease. And the disease is the corruption, the true evil, what makes us grimace and appear disgusted. No one, but the madman, desires evil, the evil the common mind views as evil. But what is evil to the madman if not good to the madman? Everything is an illusion, but universal truth.
There are two souls in contrast; on a bench they sit,
Of wood that rots. A smile is lit
On countenance of a maiden so fair.
But of the other, whose features are so raw,
Distorted, disheveled, his presence a flaw,
Though not to the maiden, whose scorn shan’t flare.
He stares straight ahead, then he looks down,
And feels burdened with shame from the eyes of the town.
His head turns right and lo!
Such pain of perfection – her hair a sheen,
Her eyes crystal-blue, she deserves keen,
Delight in her features which elegantly flow.
Her attire is green and beauty is her;
Reincarnated in a woman who sits next to a cur.
His eyes are caught in her dazzling hair,
Golden and lustrous like newly-spun thread.
This gaze shan’t turn away, but oh! Such dread
When viewing the contrast to the maiden so fair.
She peers to her right and beholds his stare.
An utterance of words from her heart she shares:
“Do not be sad, my sweet,
God adores you; of this, I believe;
His eternal love shall not give you leave;
And when before him, you shall kiss his feet.”
He entreated her of this alien tongue
And its origin; the words how they stung!
“Beautiful woman, I am emptiness; can you not see?
Your beauty, how vivid, and untainted by grime,
But here is I, whose looks are a crime.
How may God love me, when thine own mere complexion is a contrast to me?
She speaks naught but smiles and kisses his hand,
And takes his own, and at once, they stand.
She gathers a crowd, standing in place,
Her beauty a meadow whilst his is a warren,
His countenance battered, sullied, and sullen,
Such a contrast from her porcelain face.
One bathed in blood whose screams are a din;
Lived as a savior, and died for our sins.
Hung upon the wood, he gazes around,
Crimson aplenty and joy too scarce.
A prophet martyred; away with iniquity – the curse.
Mary’s cries, how they echo; such a mournful sound.
A single Roman wielding a spear,
Drains holy blood from a heart; it sears
The Roman’s skin. He convulses and twists, and eyes
Look above and witness the heaven of light.
A single ray from the clouds; oh, what a sight!
And he collapses to his knees, and peacefully dies.
A storm unfurls from the sky;
Droplets fall upon lips so dry,
A banner torn – the wrath of God rains down.
Away with evil; away with iniquity,
Of corrupted tax collectors, caring naught for poverty.
And of women abandoned with torn, bloody gowns.
Allow! Despair to vanish, and add the great
Moments of peace to a withered state,
For a begging wretch whose arms reach
Out for our love, not a dirty coin,
Originating from a purse beside the groin,
Hitherto he was but a leech…
Who mooched for aught, but now,
The lord calls: Peace! Allow! Allow!
Abruptly passes the wretch,
Ere mentioned – a fair maid’s companion
His countenance a miserable trepidation.
Today he wallows, his arms outstretched.
For a mere coin, not any love,
Disregarding what’s above,
Or what’s around – an angel’s voice should tell
Him to take a seat
On a chair, and extend his feet,
To wash the filth, then witness the shell
Of a mien, broken and sad.
Then eye his torso, only clad
In tattered garments, ragged and dirty.
But kiss your hand, and hold his own.
And point towards a God on a throne,
Who offers peace for eternity.
On Saturday, this man retires to an abandoned shanty,
Recounting his coins – so very scanty.
Insufficient for a meal; he breathes a sigh,
Throws himself on a worn mattress,
And dreams deep of a world that’s godless,
And one with pale skin, and blue eyes that cry.
The beautiful maiden sits at a table,
Smiling radiantly and reading a fable.
Her home a brilliant color, -
Some parts golden, some parts green,
The sun reflecting a brilliant sheen,
This pour of beauty like that of a shower.
She’s adorned in an ornate gown -
Acquired from a particular shop in town.
A white velvet – a canvas for her locks,
Bright and golden, moving as though
It be an animated painting, moving to and fro,
Caressing the white-velvet frock.
Then comes the night, she lays her head
Upon a pillow, and her body upon a bed.
She falls fast asleep,
But what’s this? a tear…
Her countenance – the image of fear,
A look of terror and her beauty reaped.
Christ had been laid down inside a tomb;
The city mourned in utter gloom.
Doves and ravens fell together,
The mire soaked in blood,
Yes! Christ’s blood saturated in the mud,
And nothingness would hence reign forever.
The heavens weep for their holy one
Blackened clouds shroud the sun,
And to the wooden cross comes forth,
A small child, beating a drum,
His visage blank, his heart numb,
A crow cawing on a branch to the north.
Let us return to two beings who’ve slept,
Awakening in a world bereft
Of life and death; and emptiness permeates,
In the air, and on the land,
Of vast darkness that spans,
Throughout this world, distorted and debased.
All around a vast wasteland,
Apocalyptic, burnt, as though the hand
Of God sought fit to spread darkness,
To a world of sin. Succumb to this sight!
There is however an even greater plight –
The cold sobs of a woman in sadness.
She was seated upon a rock; her eyes, -
Red-rimmed, and glossy; a man sighs,
In infinite pity. Oh, miserable woman, your weeping
Tarnishes your beauty, though others may
Feel great sympathy in your dismay,
And offer a hand to tend the wounds in your keeping.
The wretch approached and touched her arm,
Looking up, both smiled, and silenced the alarm.
Embracing him, she asked,
“My friend, excuse my distress; pray tell
Of where we are. It’s so dark; I remember I fell,
Then I awakened, saw this, and gasped.”
“I too, am in shock,” he spoke with pity.
“I remember sleeping in an abandoned shanty.
I will say, that perhaps we,
Are fortunate to be alive (subject to change)
Though we indeed should strive (subject to change)
To not succumb to this strange catastrophe.”
She stared in awe upon his grizzled face,
His eyes marked wisdom, misery erased.
Long before, she was piteous when she saw
A man with saddened stare,
Towards fellow beggars, without a care,
All fleeing from the law.
Hitherto piteous of his sorry state,
Now envious, his eyes a gate,
Into his soul, - a soul of strife.
She felt consoled when near,
Near to him, she felt no fear
In a world that resembled his life.
This woman is perfect, her skin aglow,
But of his, now which shows,
A unique resplendence – lustrous, and pure.
But how? Why, this place, perfect for him,
Imperfect for her. A world reflecting his soul, so grim.
The darkness, bleakness. To him, it allured.
Belonging he feels, though for her –
Wonderment he feels, his mind astir.
A hell engirdled the two,
He kisses her hand,
And together they stand.
Whither to, he wished he knew.
A man ponders where to go;
A woman observant of the snow
That fell like ashes, upon the blackened
And simmering soil, where it died.
And where they walked – an endless plain, of dried
Gravel for dirt, - a landscape, empty and flattened.
The sky a dark shade of gray;
Nothing resembling the light of day;
Silent and absent of gale.
No creature walked, grazed, or breathed
In a world where the very air seethed.
The odor sulfuric and stale.
The day of Easter, holiness abounds;
A man walks a dead world, and has found
Two people: man and woman, guided by fate.
The maiden and wretch, behold Christ’s approach.
They question him not, and neither encroached.
Their fears turned petty and thus was abated.
‘Son and Daughter,’ the Holy man speaks.
‘You stand in a world littered with judgement.
A landscape stained with persecution,’
He points – ‘Woman, where you stand seems alien,’
He points – ‘Man, you feel familiarity.’
He points to both – ‘And both of you have discovered the underlying truth.
Your eyes have seeped into a world that tells of the judged and the judgmental.’
He raised his hands – ‘And so I say before I leave:
‘Judge not, that you be judged,
For the judgement you pronounce, you will be judged,
And with the measure you use it will be measure to you.’
The beautiful maiden and wretch looked to each other,
And with a glimmer in their eyes, they exited together.
Awakening in a world where naught has changed,
Except for the man and woman who lived almost free,
Free from discord, and confusion; but though they’d never see,
A God who still views sin upon a world so estranged.