In the Village of Darkness and Light

Dust drew life from the light and became a creature,      
so if dust is drained of life by the reemergence of the light,      
will the selves inside the dust be forever existent in the light?      
     
In the forest the tiny people      
host their secret celebrations.      
The trees are so high that they are shrouded in darkness,      
but the village can survive with the city lights.      
The hedonistic rituals can continue each day like the day before.      
The smiles and rosy drunken cheeks can grow still all the more content.      
It is true that here the meaning of life is to live.      
No one can cheer and toast beers and wines to your health      
like these little musketeers.      
They are so rich with life.      
     
There’s a small open patch somewhere off beyond the darkest bushes of the thicket      
and the thistles that can cause blood and pain      
where some have been said to have disappeared.      
They ceased to exist entirely,      
so the fairies stay far from here.      
     
The young postman runs, runs, runs into the city      
carrying clumsily his four huge rifles.      
One is made of gold, and it hangs on a strap giving his back defense when he leaves from conquer.      
     
He fumbles two in his arms.      
One is in the shape of a curvy framed woman.      
The corresponding rifle appears like the male sex organ.      
Yet, one is hidden in his right pants leg. That is the power of surprise, and it is good for him.      
     
Also, he is decked with 4 pistols around his waist to fight his every fear      
by eliminating every creature that incites it within him.      
What is his greatest fear?      
It is the fear of nonexistence.      
     
He racks the slide of the latter of the ones that he was holding, and the rifle ejaculates into the sky      
with a roar of thunder.      
The rifle in the shape of a woman’s frame falls to the earth and misfires.      
 The man is uneasy as he shoots and voices into the air,      
“Alert! Alert!”      
He reclaims the fallen rifle and begins to grope it too and rack the slide.      
The other rifle touches the ground and misfires as well,      
but he gives the rifle voice over the multitude as he seizes their attention for his announcement.      
     
The townspeople leave their sturdy stone and clay houses and surround the man      
who is standing beside the central Christmas tree (Christmas twelve times a year is good for the market) and a pedestal with a microphone,      
and a child leaves his house and witnesses a pair of tender loving squirrels consoling each other with petting      
at the very second of death      
(the couple must have been hit by the rifle misfires),      
and he asks his single mother excitingly, “Can we have squirrel stew? These are good for eating.”      
     
The postman picks up the fallen gun and holds both rifles in his arms together,      
and they are at peace, and no family is harmed.      
     
“Alert!” he exhorts walking onto a pedestal beside the Christmas tree. “News from the Bush Lining.      
I have seen what lies beyond the thistles.”      
The little creatures are silent.      
The president of the people walks to the stage as the audience parts for him.      
“Is this true, Man of the Post?”      
     
Though lost for breath, he manages to suck in enough air to reply, “Yes,”      
and he collects himself.      
He recounts a tale that earlier he had heard a sound,      
a perverted chuckle resonating from the other end of the thistles.      
Therefore, he had reached his hand into the thistles and stabbed a finger with the thorn.      
He raises his red finger as evidence as the eager world watches.      
“The bush was so thick,” he says, “that I couldn’t see anything but a broken shard of an image.      
The image was golden and bright from what I could see.”      
The crowd gasped. The elderly leader retained his composure.      
But everyone else questioned themselves, saying, “What can this mean?”      
     
A lady exits hurriedly from her house and screams aloud, “”My son is gone.”      
     
Sun Seeker was a youth about the age of 19.      
He was not that fond of parties and was rarely with someone.      
He cried often. He was weak for a man,      
and he was an admirer of bloody red roses.      
He wanted to know what was real.      
     
Is Christmas something other than economic stimuli?      
What is right beyond the bushes of death?      
Why do people feel so sad in between celebration and celebration?      
Why are my parents separated?      
Why does the president of our town sleep with many women      
(Sun Seeker would hear news from the Underground)?      
“Because it’s fun,” he understood, and he tried for himself a few pleasures.      
Tears streamed down his face      
when the woman he gave his first lust to abandoned him.      
He had realized that he loved her, so he avoided the parties      
to prevent himself from caring for anyone else      
and tasting the sour flavor of rejection again.      
He was a bitter old man at heart      
even being only at the age of 19.      
     
Little forestry creations, you are so happy and sweet.      
Sun Seeker is the breed of darkness.      
Hiding in the base quarters of the home      
for no one to see,      
but the lowliest of heroes in this road—      
these are they that will travel the farthest.      
     
“Sun Seeker, did I tell you that when you were young, your father and I visited the Bush Lining?      
It was his idea.      
But that day a big animal had stepped on the bush with its foot, and briefly we saw it—      
the thing behind the bushes.      
You leaped out of my hands to try to crawl to existence,      
but your father retrieved you before you could overtake it.      
He had left us soon after.”      
     
Sun Seeker broke away and forced himself through the giant bush and bled and hurt for days      
(he had left during the festival of the 60 Hours of Bittersweet),      
and he finally could see the other side,      
and the postman was to arrive a little after him.      
     
Behold, there was a virgin light beaming down.      
It peeked into the thicket      
to lay its rays upon Sun Seeker      
who, seeing the light, let the waters flow      
from his eyes.      
He was over-pouring with joy.      
     
The light penetrated him.      
He was feeling so warm.      
The light easily pierced his body,      
and all that he could feel now was very well.      
He was luminescent.      
He slowly became transparent.      
His smile widened      
speaking, “Ode to the Light.      
Goodbye woodland trees.      
Goodbye earth and seas.”      
Tiny particles made love with the golden light      
and fell.      
They were only dust.      
     
Sometime later amidst a public celebration      
(they celebrate wars and other meaningful things–that might be put into question—but I have no idea what this one is for),      
the earth shakes when a great post above collapses, and a being shows its face far above them.      
They watch the sky and prick their minds with wonder,      
screaming, “There’s a big person up in the air.      
It’s far above the trees just floating looking down at us.”      
     
The Christmas tree burns beneath a ray and becomes consumed with flame,      
and some odd little person shouts, “Die Christmas! Die! You have betrayed your birthright      
[which is to say, “You have betrayed your meaning”]!”      
They are crowded and attacked by the people, but merge with The Light and vanish.      
Gasps are heard among the masses of happy little creatures.      
Though many are shown through and espoused to The Light,      
many more are left remaining.      
They are solid.      
Their Jiva’s are tough and rigid.      
This generation passes away,      
dies out like normal men,      
and their dust covers the woodland floor,      
and they are overtaken by another generation      
with a similar holiday      
that also doesn’t appreciate the marriage of the squirrels      
and feeds on their flesh.      
     
After many years, the trees claim sky again,      
and the light patch becomes once more a thing of legend.      
Many people disappear.      
Others merely die.      
All turn to dust.      
Some go with light.      
    ...  
 
And in another village, the light is not seen.  
Neither is darkness an element of the environment.  
Light and darkness are hidden within the hearts of the people,  
and they demonstrate likenesses of the light and darkness in their words and actions.  
This is the common land that is ambiguous.  
No one sees the light with his/her eyes.  
Two brothers slave at the edges of sky  
with the wheels that are connected to each other,  
one cranking the wheel that ropes the day and brings it over the naked celestial dome,  
another cranking the wheel that ropes the night and slowly overlaps the day.  
The first brother is called Ante and the other Post,  
and the realm in which they dwell is called Meridiem.  
They each have a devious plot  
because Post wants to end the world and cause night forever,  
and Ante wants the horrid world to never end  
(whose is the bigger sin?).  
Post, someday, will overcome his elder brother, and there will be nothing left when Post from the realm of Meridiem does so.  
That is when we will know the extent of existence.  
The light within us or the darkness will create our own heaven or hell because the old worlds will have been destroyed,  
and the worlds created will be external developments of what is in our hearts  
(that cannot change then when there is nothing on which they might base change)  
which will be the centerpiece that will then be praised  
in those Lasts Villages of Darkness  
or Light.