The First Self

The first,

Born into bottomless blackness,

Was the microscopic dot of light.

Who, at first chance,

Roamed incessantly into desolation

for having never found an intact vision,

complete of itself.

After having lost his self, an obsidian

slap

From a motherly, tender hand

carried the intention of awareness

of love, of care.

 

Opposite of his own mother,

His only lonely company

 

Blind to her

He searched in despair

 

The microscopic dot of light.

Up among the clouds.

The crown of the skies.

The same which makes the eyes see.

The same which makes the anguish

That yielded the elements.

The same which created the rainbow.

Prismed by the bottomless gloomy ocean.

The child-father of all lights.

Its solitude and misery

to tell us that darkness

is truly the one who cradles

and that light, it’s child,

is who brings us to her,

the darkness.

The destination is the self.

Destiny is always in the self.

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