Movement IX: The Ascent of the Unspoken
Sonnet XLI: The Resurrection of the Radiant Root
He climbed the stairs of gravity and light,A ghost of glory in a shroud of gray,Emerging from the bowels of the night,To greet the dawning of a different day.The heavy anchors of his old dismay,Had vanished in the furnace of the Naught;He moved as winds across the water stray,Without the friction of a labored thought.The lesson that the iron hammers taught,Was written in the marrow of his bone:That every battle that the tongue had fought,Was but a shadow on a crumbling stone.He reached the surface where the world began,No longer deity, but simply Man.
Sonnet XLII: The Gathering of the Word-Weary
The people huddled in the broken square,Beneath the skeletons of gilded towers,With hollow eyes and tangles in their hair,Exhausted by the weight of wordy powers.They had been fed on paragraphs for hours,And choked on chapters of a dry decree;Their spirits withered like the desert flowers,Beneath the sun of sheer verbosity.They looked to him to solve the mystery,To heal the schism with a grander phrase,To write a new and golden history,And lead them through the labyrinthine maze.But he stood silent in the middle ground,A living sanctuary without sound.
Sonnet XLIII: The Miracle of the Mute Majesty
He did not speak of "Justice" or of "Law,"Nor did he chant the litanies of "Grace";The crowd beheld, with a collective awe,The stillness written on his shining face.It was a peace that occupied the space,Between the heartbeat and the sudden breath,A quietude that could at last erase,The ancient, rattling eloquence of death.As if a hand had swept across the heath,To still the clamor of the winter gale,Or sheathed the sword within a velvet sheath,To let the softer harmonies prevail.The air grew heavy with a holy weight,That opened every long-locked inner gate.
Sonnet XLV: The Transfiguration of the Throne
He walked toward the seat of ebon wood,The chair whereon his heavy fathers sat,And there, before the multitude, he stood,A king who had outgrown his habitat.He did not sit; he broke the high format,And crumbled the old throne to charcoal dust,Relinquishing the crown and ziggurat,And every scepter of linguistic lust."The only king," he smiled, "is simple Trust,The only law is that of Being’s breath."He scattered the old symbols to the gust,And danced upon the cenotaph of death.The ruins bloomed with clover and with thyme,Above the wreckage of the ancient rhyme.The kingdom has been transformed into a Commonwealth of Silence.
Sonnet XLIV: The Dissolution of the Dialect
A woman wept, but not with any noise;A soldier dropped his heavy, iron spear;The children felt a strange and sudden poise,That washed away the sediment of fear.The "Thee" and "Thou," the "Far" and "Very Near,"Dissolved into a soup of golden light,Until the meaning was entirely clear,Without the aid of intellect or sight.They saw the universe, both dark and bright,As one continuous and breathing skin,A tapestry woven of day and night,Where every soul is essentially kin.The dialect of "Mine" and "Thine" was gone,Before the rising of the silent dawn
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