We came in the morning; each one of us chose a seat like the morning dew.
We listened to the thunder in the distance after being alarmed by the whipping lightning. Of the little sky we saw, the lightning spread across it in a second of ominous brightness and power; the thunder rocked us.
Drops of dew as we were, we trembled, afraid of the possibility of rain.
We tried hiding under a rock, on its dry eternally shadowed bottom.
But when it rained we found out that the rain was what kept us alive.
The rock sucked us dry, and our soul went inside the rock, became immobile,
stared at us from behind a single-way opaque soundproof mirror, calling to us in vain;
we only saw our reflection, not knowing it was our own image we saw,
completely oblivious to our nature, completely abashed by what we mistook as deformations:
hunchbacks, twisted backbones, broken arms, missing fingers, unsymmetrical eyes, crippled knees, crooked noses, elephant ears, swollen cheeks, dotted skin, poked faces, bulging necks, lidless eyes, unkempt hair, protruding lumps of fat, saggy arms, flat feet, cracked bleeding lips, voluminous thighs, incomplete broken yellow teeth, long unfiled dirty fingernails…we saw until we plucked our eyes.
Tiresias came too late in the final act to warn us.
Son of man, you forgot your noumenal soul.
And now even with closed eyes, we suffer from wanton soulless images of our incomplete Self.
What rain can shatter the rock which builds our world yet entraps our soul?
What rain can free our soul and give birth to us again?
This spring, we will blossom deformed, tormented, and ugly.
This spring, we will bloom already withered, already seasoned, already yellow and dry.
This spring, we will bud with screaming thorns.
This spring, we will cancerously surrender to our archetypal fatherly phenomenon of Self.
The lightning no longer frightens us; if only the lightning stroked.
The thunder no longer sounds; if only the thunder spoke.