The Last Exile
It wants to get up and leave, to become a new source--life's fountain, someplace new inhabited by rocks--to become a template again. From darkness the jungle would rise; to careen forward with living creatures. Her priceless cargo could mistake her for a freighter; they might expect a free ride, become a tramp ship for creatures. Jungles like this are the realm of physical laws, they involve forces of nature which take years to manage--natural selection, habitat, ecosystems, predators; and thus, they keep moving, using their mobility genes, to escape to that which may offer another place to belong in pristine blues and greens, places of sheer comfort, away from the Tigress.
The Tigress is the one who remains. She is spotted--round paws offering various levels of innocence. She also carries a sense of sinister, meant for food and chase. A civilized sense of place becomes mysterious, and yet, more valued as well. In spite of the ravages, her genetic data remains in perfect chronological sequence, as it has for millennia. She creates her own language, explores the poetry of her native sounds. Although she loves kingdoms, in her mind this one lacks a true ruler, only solitary life forms with founding genetic codes within bodies; the genetic code waits, as if confessions from evolution's checkered past, voices yearning on the eve of constant duels with environments. She has long since abandoned the sound of romantic loneliness, the beckoning, the protests against the collusion of death. She, as the last exile in paradise, doesn't choose to be with humans.
A far reaching willingness emerges as if in a fighting poet. The Tigress is the misunderstood visionary. Her sound--the echo up the mountain valley--is hushed only by the rains. Battle cries, resonances, her belief in nothing, the nature of her temptation, the knowledge of a select few. She feels no religion, senses no psychology, reads no literature, creates no crucifixion story; that's too ceremonial.
No comments:
Post a Comment