Death of the Wounded Male

Death of the Wounded Male

A primal tale of the final suffering of a young stag. We found him shot, amidst the woods. His guiltless life, taken in misguided sympathy, by a farmer's gun. Entangled for days, his antlers caught in barbed wire, his frenzied hoof prints stamping out his mandala of death upon the earth, around the base of an ancient oak tree.

We buried this beautiful child of the forest, with dignity and reverence, and learned through Gaia's rituals the passage of initiation.

We had travelled to the woods as a working party, to free the waters, blocked, locked and inert, by removing a dam, not expecting the day's experiences to carry the metaphors revealed.
.........................

Where art thou male of innocence
whose blissful sense directeth thee
upon the mortal call of fate
in knowing death's lone cry?

For there, in twisted, broken wire 
your frozen gaze has lost the fire
that blazed within your free
 and simple soul.

As men of silver teaching's path

observe the complex tanglement

of Indra's web in her disguise

as mirror'd within each our eyes

which flicker wide upon surprise

as we,

revolve, 

evolve, concentric'lee

in quantum eccentricity

of schedules held in time's advance

the geometric spiral dance

that leads upon the open path

of karma's stepping stones.

 

For in amongst our fellow stags

as yet to see the bullet's rage

whose spiral path bears down at speed

to take your precious life.

In fury, trapped at oaken base

 creates his dance upon the earth

with frantic cleaving of the soil

his desperation known to those

who see the trace.

So, will the heaven's path reveal
a gift to those who choose to steal
another's sacred life?

So look to those who hold their guns

in hellish fear of what they see

misunderstanding karma's ways

of mirroring, each action that we make.

For those who know the Tantric path

observing death is medicine

whose vital, brutal mechanism

polarises softened vision

into stark reality

where those with courage thus can see

impermanence, of all things held to be.

For on that bridge, 'tween this and that

the magic veil, in subtlety

of shades of dark and light engage

the senses, tempted and ablaze

in dalliance with the sexual fire

misunderstood, 

without sweet wisdom's path.

For in itself, the transiental

passing bliss

of male release

does bring a sense of inner peace

that serves to bind one's fantasy

contrived within futility

without an exit strategy...

How foolish that we recognise

yet still ignore the certainty

of sweetness of the rose's hip

upon our moistened parted lips

yet unaware of savage cruel thorns.

 

For 'til we learn the alchemy

begifted sexuality

the condensation of release

the mystic portal offers peace

to those who practice

Tantra's twofold path.

For what is bliss, but half the path
that on its own shall misdirect
as should a bird, with just one wing
or sailor pulling with one oar
will never reach the distant shore?

 And hidden in obscurity
beguiling through it's mystery
is the navigator's lamp
held by Atisha, clear and bright
that leads the way
into the light
illuminating golden keys
of Highest Yoga Alchemy.
...................

We freed the water.

Then, as our day ended around the fire's embers,
with tales and song, and rose hip drafts
this group of friends
with simple taste
sang this ancient song