A Poem for Baharak
They say the music plays
without a destination.
They say the Heaven’s Gate
is shut tightly and locked.
They say six converging paths
enter a huge meadow in the lowlands.
You will lose your way, and blind
with fear, huddle in an unforgiving
darkness. They say the hill you climb
the next morning will trap you in a pathless
forest occupied by a murder of crows. They say
by the second day’s end you will have lost
resolve to find the Chapel of Beginnings.
They say your faith cannot withstand these tests.
My friend, do not listen to their terrorist words.
Their speech is meant to defeat you. They are
lapsed pilgrims who have lost every tendril of
faith that once connected them to shining hope.
Stragglers have broken free of their control,
and have left behind this company of despair.
They greet you with famished hopes, they share
their meager provisions with you, they sing
in cracked voices of their escape. “Join us! ”
They cry. “We are the self-rescued ones.”
Not even rain clouds massing overhead can
dampen your high spirits. Soggy ground makes
you stumble again and again, chill air bites
your face, but you rejoice in your success
in the company of the self-rescued ones.
The French song you sing softly in the twilight
will reach my hearing like a cherished memory.
A pair of angels will reassure you the Heaven’s
Gate always swings open in a celestial breeze.
All six paths lead to the welcoming homestead
of the Green People, who will tenderly give you
sweet water to drink and magic mushrooms
to eat to ease your stress. When you enter
the Dark Places, courage will not abandon you
and the light within will guide you unerringly.
Crows will scatter at your approach. And nestled
in a green valley you will see the Chapel. The air
will resound with welcoming music sung by your
new friends who greet you from your new home.
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