words of old


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I speak from a wet oiled mouth
Of words so softer than dew
Of words so engraved
In the deeper fountain of adages

I speak of the words of old
Words which springs from
The deeper walls of the ancestral world
And of the lips of the gods of the land

How can the light dim from the shrine—
when the chief priest is on an incantation visitation? 
or how can the lizard be an alligator—
when his length is just a fly walk?

Thousand folded words woven from
The depth of the spirit of our forefathers—
Million caved lines of voluminous riddles
From the wings of the wings of the gods I speak!

They are common tales to mere minds
But across the village acronym,
They are a billion fermented parables from the webs of the shrine
Imbued on balanced sanctimonious paradoxes

These are my tales—
they are the tales of my people
Thus cut through the spectrum of centuries
On an evolving linguistic and cultural mysticism 

The Village Thinker © 2014

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