The poet dreams

The young poet dreams.

His eyes scan the low horizon. They witness the birth and death of stars. He witnesses worlds become heavy with life. And that life take hold and grow into a mighty torrent. He witnesses the first gasps of civilization and the first stone to be set upon stone. He sees the first hammers rise and fall upon steel. He sees brotherhood, against adversity. As the first ideas of tyranny and freedom entwine in their eternal dance and the first warriors raise their banners in support of their chosen ideals. He sees those warriors become soldiers, and soldiers become mighty armies. He weeps over the clash of colossal powers and the devastation of cosmic forces. He becomes one with the great tale, written once and told a million times over million. But before he can capture it....

The poet awakes.

His eyes find and become obsessed by beauty. His heart yearns to be one with another. He forgets his cosmic tale and becomes enmeshed in something a lot more personal. No longer are his dreams filled with conquest and conquerors. No longer does valor give thrill to his heart. The young poet is now motivated by the task of describing beauty. An equally impossible task as the other, now forgotten. He years, his heart burns and his mind is enslaved by the mere existence of what he can only call the manifestation of perfect beauty. He feels he can never be happier, and that sadness will never again touch upon his shadow. And yet.....

The lovelorn poet falls.

From lofty perch, he tumbles to the ground. Covered in shadows and the ashes of what was once his, he sees his coveted in the arms of another and knows the flame of jealousy. And so he burns. And in his suffering, he plumbs the depths of human nature and the depths of suffering. He falls, further into darkness, under the weight of his own pain. He forgets completely the acts of valor, the men of honor and the grand armies that have gone the way of dust. And he would remain there, forever grovelling, and yet.....

The poet finds.

A small glint of metal. The filtered whispers of great victories, hard won. The heat of sacrifice, undimmed by the passage of time. And some warmth creeps back into his stone-like heart. He closes his eyes, sheds the vestiges of his selfishness and his self-obsession. He discards his coterie of uncaring friends, who only delighted in his suffering and gave no succor. He closes his eyes and dreams again.

A vast plain opens up before his eyes. The shadows of the past and the future open themselves up to him. Their valiant efforts, their last stands and their ultimate sacrifices are laid bare before him again. He begins to write again, the self forgotten, the flesh discarded. He has a purpose again. To immortalize those, who gave their all, for causes and nations and ideologies. And all is, as was.

Once more, the poet dreams.