Amidst the Storm

I see the journey bearing no ends; clouds of storm have arrived upon. Let the storm rampage through its pace; meanwhile I shall behold as the lone observer, for that once again the city has shaded pale, sunrays barely descended. Indeed, have many tales arisen from the whirl of storm clouds, where lightning strikes within and without, white flashes witnessed. Alas, the wretched sanctuary! You were once the sun-shone hall that bore the fortune and the glory, only to be darkened by the fading of the sun. Colors have receded from your beauty, refreshing you into pure white; Integrity has well been undermined, leaving the tattered pieces apart. Yet the storm has redeemed you upon: the regression of hues has marked your resurrection, pure and white.

I once walked within the halls, under which I looked upon the statues’ pieces torn asunder – faces of the saints could barely be seen, yet the hollowed eyes glinted in white, as if springs of water flowed outward. Once was I overwhelmed by grief, mourning over the receded hues. But what for now? Rainstorm has descended its falls over the entire land, and the rainwater, indeed, will purify the shattered statues in all but white. Ah, white, the color of sacredness. Still I remember that white is the color of sages – whose robes are white, whose staffs are white. Rainstorm of might, rainstorm of white! Do never show your mercy over the silted filth covering this land! Shall you pour your anger as water and purify this hall upon, and for once again will I be ascended in ecstasy.

My friend, cast your vision to the far west, where the falling sun has yet been emitting its leading light; yet the light of sadness has failed to penetrate the violent storm clouds, leaving the weak yet pure white glimmer travelling through. And the glimmer falls across this land, as if a piece of white, translucent silk envelopes the scorched field. The air is darkened, so are the buildings, yet the stream of whiteness shines still.

Pathetic, pathetic. How has the storm arrived so quickly! Though you have witnessed, though you have meditated, the truth is yet to be accepted – the truth of the storm, the truth of the prophecy. Will you not expect the advent of the storm so early, as your mind is yet to be benevolent enough to embrace the vast sight, as your vision is yet to be wide enough to encompass the great magnificence.

So will I lead you to the right path, as the stormy clouds are yet to invade the entirety of the welkin. Grayish welkin, yet it has not always been so. For days and months has it been azure and blue, occasionally painted by the dots of clouds. And by that day did the traveler set out for his journey, where he travels through the mountains and the plains. But is he aware of the briefness of the walk? The journey will end; so will his temporary life. He will eventually embrace a new way of living, no longer born the vibrance of meditation. Alas, miserable one! He has been entrapped in the incessant cycle, as if chains have yoked his defiant soul; and as such, his vividity will soon be drained within two years, just as man deprived of his soul. But he has chosen to keep on, stepping toward the great aspirations. It was his consciousness that fueled him for once and once more – his meditation of myriad thoughts and scenes.

Meditation has led my way so far. When I stare upon the skies, I see nothing but the shadow. Yet the shadow has its shape: clouds are rumbling; clouds are whirling; the sky is angered. Will I, then, be envisioning the enraged land of its suffering and pains, and by the dawn of this darkened place, I shall chant over its ineffable elegance.

As the storm clouds gather at height,
Statues cracked apart, turning white.
The lone one thought over his past,
Upon which his vision shall cast.

First to be observed shall be the eye of the storm. Where the twirling clouds have gathered around, where the rampaging thunders have pointed toward, lies the spinning core of the disaster, the eye of the storm. Eye, indeed, it is, glowing the glints of greed and hunger, as if the monster is about to devour the land. Yet even the ruthless beast depicts its mercy, unleashing rains of water, descending. Terrifying eye! Staring over the fields and streets, the eye never stops its search. Whirling clouds have formed its eyehole, accompanied by the eyelids of wrath; lightnings are its vision, much devastative.

Ah, familiarity has been perceived. Dreams have I made, in which the eye of the storm was much foreseen. All I could recall was the intimidating figure of changing shape, eventually forming a staring eye that stings into my soul. Truly would I never forget that staring, for it penetrated through the weakened consciousness of mine, and it angers, permanently. Today is the day of connection, upon which the sights of the past are shown, the prophecy of the great one verified. As such, more should I say the eye is the eye of great knowing, where beneath the storm finds the knowledge of all. Should the confident man dive into the deep clouds of storm, thunders will be his voice, storm, his eye. And the vast knowledge will raise the tortured one into the residence of peace. Alas! I am powerless, unable and undaring to seek through the clouds, for the lightnings will burn my skin. Thus passes the eye of storm, witnessed by the impotent seeker.

Amidst the darkened clouds in a swarm,
Lies the terrifying eye of the storm.
The hole in clouds, casting angered stare,
Admired by the man who failed to dare.

Next to be told is the edge of clouds. The storm is yet to cover the body of the sky, leaving traces of azure afar. Shall I observe the clouds aside, standing by the edge, shedding the strips of white and blue. Not as those clumped at middle, thousands of tormented souls crying for their lost lives; those ones rampage as beasts; those ones roar with thunders. Yet the clouds at the edge are not as devastative; rather would I address them as tranquil. Being the darkened clouds, mere rain has dropped below; being the covering storm, lights have well passed through. More should I say they are the messengers from cleared sky, who warn the eye of storm of its ruthless acts. And as such, tranquility well forms around; when I stand just beneath, I shall feel the duality of two distinct worlds: one submerged under the purifying, intensifying rainstorm, the other born with peace.

Have I once and once more dreamed over the lines of clouds, where the elegant nature of the sights enchanted me with the strong will to reach over. That was when the great aspiration took its form, standing ahead, yet unable to be arrived upon. Alas! How should I wait for the edge of the clouds to come by! Messages have been sent, yet the response has been delayed. Forever will I be standing here, still alone.

The edges of clouds are they;
Stripes of peace, be it may.
Beauty as its, to be seen,
Thus is it the unreached scene.

I have seen your meditation over the clouds and the storm. Enlighten your vision, my friend; search for the great aspirations that settle within. Have you said them to be unfathomable to achieve, yet the path has been created; search for it.

The words are the cliff and the house, the house atop the cliff, under the storm. Forests have well resided below, yet the house oversees them, standing still. All persisted much until the arrival of the storm, where the whirl of clouds astounded the mortal man beneath. He stared at the eye of the storm, and the eye stared at him. He glanced below the cliff, beside the house. Strong winds had pushed the house, shaking under the rain. And the rain stopped, much to his disbelief: a sudden halt of the storm, followed by the unwinding of clouds. Fractures formed, then enlarged; and the descending sun has once again shot its orange light across the land and the fields. Cliffs and the house stood still, with the frozen man, arrested by his endless thoughts. His vision yet perceived the firmament, where the continuous clouds were belts over the purified sky of canvas. Orange belts twined and wrapped, painting over the paled welkin.

Magnificence would not satisfy, as the vast scenes astounded all the mortal ones. My friend, my mind is enlightened, my soul purified. And I, before the great spectacle of the sky, shall ascend.

Forests, cliffs, and the house alone,
Man in staring; the storm has blown.
Yet the storm ended, in a brief;
Beauty of clouds, man in relief.

So has the storm ended in the vast spectacles. Shall I depart from my journey, lay down, and observe.