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Gebo
It is the price paid for what He became:
a part of Him is always there,
shivering, swaying, screaming
bleeding
High up
in the boughs of the Tree,
which is merciless
and skilled
in so many ways,
of which man cannot know.
Part of Him hangs there yet
for once ascended, there is no escape
from the tangled Tree
which holds a library of secrets
writ in blood and carved in flesh
upon its bark;
a secret language
never learned in any grammar,
never taught in any school.
The syntax of this tongue is acquired
through fear, pain, and sacrifice:
a thousand thousand nightmares
conquered only by courage.
The complexities of its etymology
birthed themselves in challenge and despair
for in these things the true worth of a warrior
might be found .
Yet, and yet
this tongue is an addiction.
Its rhythms once learned
dance trippingly over the soul
like fire in the blood,
summoning ecstasy:
the skill to birth worlds
with a single, focused breath…
or destroy them;
to make a man
or to leave the husk of madness
in its wake.
Its roots run red with blood
willingly given
by sacred fools and hungry men
and women too
who learned too late
the price of their obsessions.
Yet it is a magnificent thing
to hear their voices
singing, screaming, chanting, praying
whispering through the razor tipped leaves
of a Tree that knows no pity
and nourishes itself on sacrifice.
It is a magnificent thing to know
that in the end,
such immolation
was worth it.
© Galina Krasskova