The dead king of Eynan was propped on a pillow of stones in about 9,000 B.C…. The red-painted parapet and its top tier of a hearth [at the burial site] were a response to the decomposition of his body. For a long time, the smoke from its holy fire was a source of hallucinations and commands that controlled the Mesolithic world of Eynan. – Julian Jaynes, THE ORIGIN OF CONSCIOUSNESS
Without your laws directing us,
we don’t know whom it’s right to execute;
we don’t know whom to spare.
We’ve propped your head upon the stones,
laid out your crown and staff, and taken care
to paint the parapet
in royal red, according to your wish,
that even in your sleep
you’ll still remember and you’ll speak to us.
We’ve built a hearth on top to keep
the holy fire forever burning there,
and in the smoke at dawn
we see your spirit beckoning
for us to grope and pray,
to sacrifice whatever flesh can bring
pungent aroma to your senses
so you savor it upon the air.
And if our worship pleases you,
and if you would protect us
as in life, tell us, your children, what to do—
tell us if we should carve
a figure out of wood or clay
to keep you steady in our memory—
cupped ears, an open mouth,
round staring eyes that let you see
we are still listening,
we never will forget. Nothing has changed
despite the absence of your lips
upon our lips, despite
the stillness of your bones and the eclipse
of sunlight by the moon
that left vast darkness with us on the day
you made your final choice
to seek your ancestors. Your oldest son
confessed that he can’t hear your voice.
We think he should be banished;
maybe death should be his punishment
for blasphemy. But we don’t know!
We can’t decide how to decide. And now I hear
your last command that I must go
out to the wilderness
to fast and clear the rival voices
speaking in my head. Then I’ll be sure
some spirit that our brother
has offended, who cannot endure
the spirit of his life, has not
turned me against him by assuming your voice
at the altar of my mind.
The dark smoke gestures me away;
perhaps I’ll never find
sweet certainty again. I have displeased you.
Now the windy smoke
of your great anger grinds my eyes,
commanding me to etch this in the stone,
commanding me to exorcise
whatever voices still resist your voice,
contending that your voice alone-
one voice and one decree-
rules in the heavens and on earth, that only
in obedience can I be free.
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