Earthrites

Wherever you are is the entry point – Kabir

The Flower Songs

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Commentary afterwards….

The Flower Songs of NezahualC├│yotl (Hungry Coyote)



——————–

I choose the colors,

I mix the flowers,

In the place of beautiful new songs.

A polished jewel, a jade precious and brilliant Of deepest green, it is made,

A spring flower prepared to perfume the heavens.

To the place of rosy flowers,

Toward there I sing my song.

I am honored, I am made glad,

Chasing the much-prized flower, the aroma of the rose in the place of song.

So that with sweetness my heart is filled.

Wave after wave I send to buffet my heart.

I inhale the perfume;

My soul becomes drunk.

I so long for the place of beauty.

The place of flowers, the place of my fulfillment,

That with flowers my soul is made drunk.

—————

He makes the Eagles and Ocelots dance with him!

Come to see the Huexotzinca:

On the dais of the Eagle he shouts out,

Loudly cries the Mexica.

The battlefield is the place: where one toasts the divine liquor in war,

where are stained red the divine eagles,

where the tigers howl,

where all kinds of precious stones rain from ornaments,

where wave headdresses rich with fine plumes,

where princes are smashed to bits.

There is nothing like death in war,

nothing like the flowery death

so precious to Him who gives life:

far off I see it: my heart yearns for it!

And they called it Teotihulcan

because it was the place

where the lords were buried.

Thus they said:

‘When we die,

truly we die not,

because we will live, we will rise,

we will continue living, we will awaken

This will make us happy.’

Thus the dead one was directed,

when he died:

‘Awaken, already the sky is rosy,

already dawn has come,

already sing the flame-coloured guans,

the fire-coloured swallows,

already the butterflies fly.’

Thus the old ones said

that who has died has become a god,

they said: ‘He has been made a god there,

meaning ‘He has died.’

Even jade is shattered,

Even gold is crushed,

Even quetzal plume are torn . . .

One does not live forever on this earth:

We endure only for an instant!

Will flowers be carried to the Kingdom of Death:

Is it true that we are going, we are going?

Where are we going, ay, where are we going?

Will we be dead there or will we live yet?

Does one exist again?

Perhaps we will live a second time?

Thy heart knows:

Just once do we live!.

Like a quetzal plume, a fragrant flower,

friendship sparkles:

like heron plumes, it weaves itself into finery.

Our song is a bird calling out like a jingle:

how beautiful you make it sound!

Here, among flowers that enclose us,

among flowery boughs you are singing.



the earth is a grave and nothing escapes it, nothing is so perfect

that it does not descend to its tomb. Rivers, rivulets, fountains and

waters flow, but never return to their joyful beginnings; anxiously

they hasten on the vast realms of the rain god. As they widen their

banks, they also fashion the sad urn of their burial.



Filled are the bowels of the earth with pestilential dust once flesh and bone,

once animate bodies of man who sat upon thrones, decided cases, presided in

council, commanded armies, conquered provinces, possessed treasure, destroyed

temples, exulted in their pride, majesty, fortune, praise and power. Vanished

are these glories, just as the fearful smoke vanishes that belches forth from

the infernal fires of Popocatepetl. Nothing recalls them but the written page.

—————

I choose the colors,

I mix the flowers,

In the place of beautiful new songs.

A polished jewel, a jade precious and brilliant Of deepest green, it is made,

A spring flower prepared to perfume the heavens.

To the place of rosy flowers,

Toward there I sing my song.

I am honored, I am made glad,

Chasing the much-prized flower, the aroma of the rose in the place of song.

So that with sweetness my heart is filled.

Wave after wave I send to buffet my heart.

I inhale the perfume;

My soul becomes drunk.

I so long for the place of beauty.

The place of flowers, the place of my fulfillment,

That with flowers my soul is made drunk.











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I hoped you all enjoyed these. I have. More Poetry as ever will come our way. As I grow older, poetry seems to open me up in new ways. Poetry speaks to that ancient part of us, that continues beneath the veneer of modernity. Poetry links us to the ancient past, when it was an integral part to the opening of our consciousness, and the empathetic pathways of our heart and soul.

The poems of NezahualC├│yotl are very rich, and still full of life after all of these centuries. Through them, we go out of ourselves into his world. These are gifts from one of the Ancestors, who by some mystery is still touching us, still opening us up to life, even as he has long passed into dust. How is it the words live on, renewing themselves in every new generation? How is it that though we live in a world he may not of ever imagined, his words beckon us in to a shared eternal moment? The dead truly speak to the living. His poetry sends whispers through the head, the heart, the blood. I smell Honey… I taste it.

His gift, is his offering up of the immortal yet fully mortal moment, eternal, yet fleeting. Like sunlight on grass, it is here and now, and then gone.

Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

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