Sunday, September 5, 2010

The throne upon the hill

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 15: The throne upon the hill                                                                                                 

The hurling waves that crash upon the scattered rocks that lay at the bottom of the rising hill. Around the island and across the forgotten sea to the unknown world. Behind the oceans back does the wooden island crawl among the reflections of the sky. The sand is painted deeply upon the patient oak and humbled beyond the tide of the heat, the broken waves of the fair blue sea must spray of the cold to wash their feet as they touch the temple upon the sands, unmoved in the years passed. What catches the sunlight that falls through the rain that pours when the sky is full. In the stormy eyes of her virgin calypso, she dances above the twisting jungle, caught in the pain of its wild romance.
The tempest is blind with cold ambition of the most terrifying eclipse of the balance between the seas and dreams. In the heart of the mountain’s wildest dreams, a carpet of velvet untouched by life, awaits no one and all the trees that stand by it, as the welcoming subjects of the empty throne. A faint light that falls through their fingers and upon the cracked arms of the stone carved for a king unheard of. In the shadows, a dead and gone spirit of the past mind lurks without a sound among the crowd by the thick carpet.
There is no story to tell as the flying image of just the picture turning to dust but what else can be dreamed of, if not the remains of the distant peace. The dust has turned the darkest shade under the coat of shadows cast by the star sprinkled night.
The silver ghost that rides the ocean, gliding over every wave that tempted the patient spears waiting for their king. The moon slips away from its eyes to hide behind a cloud, passing over the timeless seat of the coming sovereign, and the moth that flutters against the trap of the web spun around his arms, resting till the night has waited long enough.
The waves are bristling with impatience, drowning the ears that listen to his whispered footsteps, silently falling upon the sand and to climb the tragedy of a long lost memory. In the darkness does his light shine more than the moon as he disregards the silhouette that calls him back to the sky and above the cliff etched out against the violet velvet soaked in the sea of sudden colour. Being the silent mistress of what the king should desire, ascending and elevated, the welcome of his moonlight descending, for he looks at his throne and in his eyes did he watch his kingdom but to never claim his rightful place in the world of kings of mortal values and queens of judgment and never the love for man and the night on that island had never been so clear.
the dawn is cautious as his eyes weep quietly beneath his greying crown and the stars are all but in sadness without his vanishing smile. His walk to his rightful surrender seems so endless and yet he remembers it all so well. The blade of his rule is shattered before his hand and with only the hilt to hold dear as he breathes with a softness that only his lips can remember. This is the night and a world of its own in the silence of the world, for peace has found happiness and all is calm.

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