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.
On Gods and Myths 