Walking through golden mist knee-deep and
swirling thick and glutinous like luminous marmalade, through budding meadows
brim with the efflorescence of ages and the mysterious hoof-prints of the
miniature deer that run by night. Over
the bridge into yet another realm, this one congealed and composed of
conglomerations of sensory experience, like the five skandhas or aggregates of personality as taught at Nalanda in times
antique and gone to the Indian sun of past millennia. Glittering sea-glass and muted orange-barley
glow in the harvest-fields, following, following, following; ever following the super-luminous trail of
The Caterpillar as he loops across the land;
now here, now there. Blessing the
Earth, suffusing it with culture and knowledge, parchments scattered like
leaves in his tracks, clattering clogs on many a foot going round many a block
and skittering down alleys and country cart-tracks and byways where sun shines
dappled through leaves that tremble when the breeze comes around stirring and soughing
high and lonesome in late afternoon. Reaching
a wondrous isle suspended just above midstream in the dragon-fly river, it
glistens in water surrounded and fish spit and gurgle there. What nature whispers in the waters and the
leaves of the trees can not be written in the tongues of man. The nature-feeling that we write of is just
an echo of the real nature-feeling. Only
a lungful of air can say it. Only an
uphill puff can inflate it. Only the
rustle of wind in the corn, the long meadow grass and wheat, only the rustle of
cereal crops under dark thunderous blue and purple skies in the summer’s
blasting heat can say it. Only the
splash of the surf can say it. Mordros
mutter tramor and back, wondrys, marthys and Glagolitic. Subsisting on glossolalia is no substitute
for nature’s silent roaring laugh. If
the world is old and ill then the spirits of the Earth will rise.
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