“O tell me, Orpheus, how,
how on earth did you crack
the Cosmic Dragon’s Egg?”
Mortals love to concur and opine
that both justice and love are blind,
even though to ears befittingly versed
in the lore of Homer, “the first tragedian,”
that truism clinks much like something
both his Odysseus and one-eyed Cyclops
of the lawless cannibals could have been
the first to coin and sell (along with a song),
having their sight and rapacious heart open
only to murderous and hardened greed.
For all comes down to the snag of all
the snags: who ultimately knows
better what is greater and more
powerful and what more real is—
is it love or Justice or is it not more
than a miming mask and mock slung
round a deadly pit of their caving void?
And surely, a knave, bad egg, louse,
always has a head start concerning evil,
practicing it much and being ever with evil
through and through, intimately involved
that he’d even take it for summum bonum
all the while he slays and numbs all that
conceives, begets the good and all that strives
to reach the sphere of its grace and where love,
love itself, is good and deep and true and firm,
all of which the knave is ignorant and which
he has worked so hard to destroy and undo
as he keeps on building ever greater Hell.
With that being said, to evil being blind
whenever it appears is bound to turn
in due course oneself into evil’s part,
and if good be good, then it can’t
be cracked and falling short of wisdom,
and wisdom would not wisdom if
deprived of knowing the good
and if ignorant of and insensible
to evil—and here also is the bar
of how little or how far we advanced
or regressed in partaking of the soul
and how little or how much we’ve
earned to be let into all she knows.
For in the soul—always next and close
to God—there is no ignorance, no blind
spots, no oblivion, no loss of sight, and
even more no death, and that’s why
I also think that the royal entwined path
to winning the soul—one’s true prize—
is what Justice and love real from us exact.
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