What Ails Thee?
A poem for Parzival
…
You keep riding into my dreams,
on that beautiful horse of yours,
like a story my father once began telling me as a child,
but never found the time to finish.
There is just never enough time!
To keep the promises, to follow through.
But you do your best, don’t you sir?
Returning to The Castle, a little wiser each time.
A bit more sleepy.
A bit more woke.
Are you upset that no one remembers you anymore?
Big Stories, Knights and the Holy Grail aren’t as fun as porno, A.I. and tik-tok I guess.
Yet your Story still tells itself.
Making the world again, while no one notices.
I swear I saw you the other day, outside a church, with your brother.
It wasn’t lost on me that you were wearing a cross, and he a thawb.
The old lady seemed pleased.
But what struck me most was the church itself, which was unlike any I have ever seen.
There was nothing there!
Just a cup. A vessel within a vessel.
The king was crying.
You didn’t ask the right question!
(((sigh)))
I never do either.
It seems like most of us have forgotten there was ever any question to ask at all.
It’s touching somehow, how universally forgetful we all are.
Why does it always take three drops of blood to make us remember?
What is it, Parzival?
Why do you suffer so?
…
#maypeaceprevailonearth