Amakra

The following is an early unedited chapter from Book Two of the Phantammeron, the dream-like section called the Amakra (“Dream of the Creator”).

As you pass through this lonely world like a lonesome phantom rarely seen, in the twilight of your life shall a greater truth be gleamed. Though few remember thy gentle face and form, nor hold in high esteem thy noble spirit of Love’s purest essence born, upon thy passing shall He alone know thy glory.

The long labor of thy doleful days and restless nights whose cruel shadows ever creep upon thy life’s dying light shall not have passed away in vain. For the longings of thy youthful heart, though banished long ago by the restless world, He shall bear for you in the end.

For a twilit land barely seen, long ago born of childhood dreams, was yet conceived before thy birth. It hath seemed that secret place hath always been, calling from some timeless space, singing in ancient rhymes of elder days long past. And yet this tragic hymn born of some sad song shall remain for you still unsung.

For a lonely nightingale in the depths of night once called to you from a garden of delight, crying out with clarion call clear and bright in the perfumed air where thy richest roses once bloomed. But you refused her call and did not answer. And so in the mists of fading memory you once saw her ghost fly away until in the twilight of thy dying days beyond vain memory now be-stilled you remembered and came seeking.

In that gray garden long withered and forgotten you shall wait, and yet may think you hear the flap of younger wings or the brilliant cry that once pierced the solemn night. But that bird hath long ago died, its sweet melody long-silenced by life’s embittered strife. For thy youthful dreams will seem but illusions of a past your mind conceived yet sadly never were. Yet in the end thy weary spirit long deaf to joy shall recall her sad song and remember.

But too late! For the midnight hour shall strike upon the dusty clock upon the wall when the last ghostly galleon of thine own life must leave for distant shores where in dreary shadow nevermore walk the living. Upon the time of your passing shall you then depart, your aged form standing upon Death’s darkened door that opens before a gray and wasteful sea whose callous waves are ever more moaning for what came before.

Its forceful tide shall then wash past thy feet as you stand upon that gloomy beach with but a barren bark for you to board. There before a rocky shore the weeping waves shall ever sweep and sway, foam and spray as they toss away in endless strife, a great ocean waste filled by the tears of thine own wasted life.

With the pall of night you shall then depart for distant lands that lie beyond all lands still unexplored, that solemn place that prophets dream of and dreamers long for. To that beyond that ever beckons shall you then set sail, your lithe and fallen form cleansed of all memory, bound in new raiment beside the Mother’s Three who hold hands in harmony.

You shall pass through a vast abyss born of listless fog and meandering mist until you meet a familiar face upon that spirit-shore. He shall be there waiting to take your hand in his and walk with you through a brighter land, one forbidden and yet forlorn. Its towering shapes shall rise up around you, their shadows bending down upon you falling freely from the grand old oaks that dream beside sleepy gardens of green delight.

You shall then dwell beside your Creator ever after in this timeless place born of youthful visions long held apart. As a child you shall then roam freely through this twilit land born of youthful dreams, thy noble form returned to childhood glory once again. You shall then be at peace bound to this ancient place conceived of thine own vast and past imaginings, knowing this primeval paradise was always of thine own making.

Upon the midnight air from a distant hill you shall once again hear the rill of the lonely nightingale calling. You shall answer, and she shall fly to you as in a dream.

– the Author



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