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Song of the Salamander



You immortal terrain, everlastingly present and eternally now, you who are as beginningless as you are endless, you who are blanketed by the ageless dust, are you not unmindful that without the life-generating fire of the Salamander, you of yourself are inert, unknowing of time, imprisoned within matterless, spiritless, unconscious unawareness of absolute zero? Without time there can be no motion; without motion there is no change; without change there are no interactions between immutable particles; without interactions no animations spring from your lifeless soil.


Praised be the Salamander who sparks your immortal terrain with immortality! Oh, you immortal terrain, changeless amidst change, you are the protean world of metamorphic metempsychosis, with successions of migrating souls incessantly crossing your ever-present stage. Oh, immortal terrain, your ova, your meaningful conglomerations of soil, water, and sunshine, when blessed with the breath of life by the sylphs of the air, become somatic bodies who fleetingly dance across your terrestrial playground until they exit and then disbecome. . .


Image credit: Wikipedia


All beginnings, all births, what are you if not terminations of previous consummations? If not inversions of hourglasses of time? Oh, sentient creatures, know you not that you derive your existence from time which is motion which is time? For without the orbs of the sun and the moon and the planets who continually move along the zodiacal highway of time, know you not that our movements might as well caught for naught? For without the orbs who correctly position themselves upon the stellar sphere, we could neither measure durations of earthly transformations nor chart the pilgrimage of earth's shifting sands. Oh, wondrous orbs of the heavens, you who with your ever-recurring, ever-recycling motions trace the efflorescent flow of time, you are divine seer who reads the palimpsest palm of earth!


Oh, ever-present terrain, the eyeglass of your encircling horizon peers at the refracted images of past and future and sees origins and destinies obliquely through the distance haze. Yet when I read the message inscribed upon the heavens, when I see that scroll that remains uneffaced by the passage of time, I understand the ageless notation and clearly see that the beginningless past and the endless future are conjoined upon the meridian of the ever-present, ever-solipsistic, ever-expanding eternal now, which is time which is motion which is time.


Copyright 2013 by Bruce McClure


The Fertile Crescent