Sometimes a song inspires me with strong imagery through both music and lyrics, even if the words are in an unknown language. This poem is the story I envision behind the Karl Jenkins piece, "Adiemus." The words are not real words, but to me they are without doubt a prayer; not a mere supplication but almost with the strength of demand. A "Come, Lord Jesus" if you will. Let me share with you what I hear and see:
looking in through the window
of time and space, two all-seeing eyes
swiftly soar across field and plain, mountain and sea,
a whole planet of imprint divine.
dotted with fireflies, the wood is alive
and dancing with mythical creatures of wonder or
perhaps just the shadows of children clasping hands ‘round a bonfire,
tiny feet prancing lightly on hardened earth,
while flames leap high sending wisps of smoke
across the moon in starry night sky.
men beat their drums in sad, slow rhythm
to voices everywhere raised in mournful song;
a flood of sound ebbing and flowing
to match the waves of pain escaping in harrowing groans
from a figure crouched low over patch of bare ground,
while a with-woman cradles the thrashing womb,
soothing, stroking the coarse,
dark hair resembling long tangled rushes planted by the mere,
weeping, weeping, weeping, all weeping together
for the one vast sorrow blanketing the whole terrain.
a collective shriek: a birthing of greatest magnitude;
larger than one, something that takes a whole tribe to bring into being,
hands moving, coaxing, tongues shouting at the heavens to relent,
shattering the surface of sky and breaking through the silence of space,
reaching for stars and galaxies with yearnings unfathomable,
tasting salt of tears and blood of bitten lips,
throats raw and burning with scent of woodsmoke
still crying out to be heard and healed
waiting, waiting, waiting for the questions to vanish
for an answer to fall, fall from the clouds.
a time-lapse rush
through oceans and rivers
billows up in a great crash
of “let there be!”
while life springs forth from turned up soil.
an orchard of abundant ripened glory
and forbidden no more
as a pair of strong and graceful arms
embraces the wide world.
jubilant shouts and sonorous laughter of celebration
erupt in a tremor of astonishing power:
spinning bodies, twirling skirts,
swelling in “holy, holy, holy.”
children crowd around to gaze in wonder
at the tiny, perfect form of bliss,
their hopes fulfilled at last
as the new earth is washed and wrapped and nursed,
nourished by the ones who brought her forth.
(This was inspired by a prompt from day 13 of 40 Days of Poetry with the Story Sessions Community.)