Canto I
Lord that art God, the road we see ahead
Lies treacherous, nor any man is sure
Which way to turn, in facing of his dread,
Only that dreadfulness he must endure,
Striving, against all odds, to keep him pure
In soul and spirit, though he have to face
Prospects that hold not even slight allure,
But promise much despair, and much disgrace,
As he proceed him forward in time’s horrid chase.
These are the times in which we struggle, for
Even a crumb; yet there are many hands
That strive to take it from us we deplore,
And yet, against marauding criminal bands
Of thugs it is one’s honest nature strands
Him helpless while they ransack all his things,
Even reducing him, although the land’s
Bountiful, into slavery as brings
Him low, perpetual prey to conquerors and kings.
He have no friend to help, except his God;
He have no hope, except the farthest flung;
Even as those abandoned forward plod
Into a destiny that will be wrung
With blood from out of flesh, as man get stung
By hardship that he may not hope to counter,
As even, by most hellish terrors strung,
He cannot hope his heart to be surmounter
Of its despondency, fed by mind’s hopeless banter.
Horrors before him, only that, and so
How do he find the strength to persevere?
To push against the all-pervading woe
Upon a path that never strikes him clear,
As all about, on every side, he hear
The cackles and the cries of them that struggle,
Yet ineffectively, that it appear
The horrid noises of defeat, death’s guggle
As it were drowning—faint hopes unable to juggle.
Thus crash man’s hopes, which he have vainly tried
Like circus showman, to keep in the air
Like as so many eggs, him terrified,
Exasperated, even as despair
Comes one-by-one, to snatch unto its lair
The hopes he held, till to one last he cling,
Yet know that he may not keep it, for there
Come forces so to claim that with their sting
Will render his attempt, a paltry, futile thing.
So it goes life is passed. In times of grace,
Men prosper, and attribute of the bounty
To their own efforts, boldness in the race,
Against competitors in creed and county--
But when the circumstances change, his country
Begins to fail, and as he starts to lose
He can depend upon police nor mountie,
Nor “knight in shining armor” as he choose,
So when fear creeps upon him also it confuse.
But scarcely any friends as might assist,
For perils no less horrible them seize,
And even, as he fail, strike with their fist
To stave his clutching, as though separatist,
At their own goods, possessions which they claim;
But so, from time to time, out from the mist
Of man’s futurity, have ever came
Terrible circumstance, and he may not lay blame.
Horrible is the life; yet man will fear
The sting of death, as otherwise but waits
Before him—he will panic, he will jeer
All others, spout invective, taunts and hates
Against his fellow men, as deprecates
Even his God above; but yet he must
Crumble before the situation, fate’s
Fortunes as shuttered he must watch go bust
The sum for which a man may strive, consumed by dust.
In times of utter vanquishment, there is
No solace in remembrance of the sweet
Of former times—propelled to the abyss
One knows the bitter fortune one must eat,
Unable to stave off complete defeat,
So he may lose himself, become unhinged
In mind, till his dementia turn complete,
And he be like a madman that has binged
After a thought, before a fate which has him cringed.
Who is the advocate and who the friend
To such a man, by all his fates imperiled?
Nor none may say, as easily contend
Self-righteous as a cardboard Christ do herald,
“Convert, that heaven lighten all the world
Within thy life,” for easy talk as these
Loose phrases, platitudes as have been caroled
Since even dawn of time, yet not appease
The man that in his morrow sure disaster sees.
When every hope has been exhausted; when
Utter despair but lingers, just ahead
Waiting and watching, who is friend to men,
To any man that must, as filled with dread,
Approach such horror he rather instead
Had not been born? There is not any friend
To so assist him; so have many pled
Unto the heavens, God, that he may end
That which they suffer if he choose not to defend.
Such is a man, his situation dire
Before the horror that not many face,
Varied atrocities that so conspire
Against his fate—that he present his case
Before heaven’s tribunals, seeking grace
Amongst the throngs of holy angels guarding,
Still he receive no help, but in his race
Unto perdition, suffer but rewarding
Of increased panic, heaven’s high disdain regarding.
“Father,” thus crieth man, “send forth thine aid,”
Yet though he cry, it seem that no one heed,
As though he were by his belief betrayed,
Belief that one day in his hour of need
Heaven may heed and grant that which he plead,
Give him a blessing, though against all odds,
As must against his horrors intercede
With grace and love such as only is God’s
Unto creation—but it grants no sign nor nods.
Rather, it knits its brows as fierce storm clouds
Against him show their fury, and reveal
Indifference to his plight; which so enshrouds
His mind that he not know which way is real,
Placing least trust in that which heart may feel
And right to do so, in his scepticism
Justified—and it make him weep and kneel
Under the fury of its cataclysm,
Heaven which rends and shows itself contain a schism.
Man cries forth “mea culpa!” and he dies.
The sound starts as a shudder, then it slips
Upward from entrails, as he softly cries
The sound that issues plaintive from his lips,
And then, because death has him in its grips,
Gives up the ghost, as passes then his spirit,
Whilst we on earth, that suffer the eclipse
Of one a living light, thus we inherit
One corpse more to the stores of memories that merit.
Such is the life of man, and such the death
By which all living matter terminates,
The exhalation, then the dying breath,
Then soul’s ascension as but germinates
In grief; and so the living creature waits
The grim finality of death’s event,
Of which foreboding fills and permeates
Its soul despite how happily it went,
Or though it have to meet with cares and accident.
Men are not equal. In society,
Systems arise, promote, propound, exclaim,
Yet man, as he live by propriety
Have not another that he equal name,
Though there be correspondence each in aim--
As God in heaven decreed and hath declared,
For were each soul with every each the same,
There were no heaven as must be prepared
For some—as even else all prophesy had erred.
Man is a traveler, and as he pass regions
Alone or in the midst of comradeship,
To his own heart he must retain allegiance,
Or else self-mastery from him will slip,
And even, in the midst of it, life clip
Short, and curtail, although he be equipped
Yet fate care not, but of his powers will strip
Utterly, and as life is from him ripped,
That which remain will find redemption in no crypt.
Travel he forth. He find life greet him hard,
Or else, at times, with grace, gentility,
Yet he may not rely on heav’n prepared
In place of mind’s and nerve’s ability;
For, lest his way bring him servility
He must, into all circumstances plunge
Full force, prepared in his agility
To meet them, though he go through grime and grunge,
Great trials such as no grace experienced then expunge.
Such is a man, that when he knows his fate
Had better face it, though it were a lion
Come to devour—he must accelerate
Into its maws, not ever neutral ion
But trust that he must build him his own Zion
In the event of death, for he must build
A fate sufficient for him to get by on
Within the mind, within the will, as willed
Ferociously be fate and destiny fulfilled.
He build, in face of enemy, a Zion’s
Utopia, stitched with all the stuff of brain,
Imagination, then, itself a science
Wherewith false superstitious faith be slain
As tell him he may not surpass all pain,
But better had been, to give up and die,
To let the beast devour him without strain
Of awesome fight, such torpor as deny
Remotely his salvation’s possibility.
A man must travel forth, and blow for blow
Deal to adversity with which is met
His course, although the fighting drag him slow
And deal it whether there be no upset
Or victory in sight, all he can get
Within his desperation’s moment mustered,
His will and savvy—never by them let
The purpose in his mind get fazed and flustered,
Though he destroy life’s hope for any cream and custard.
It is no easy match; still man must fight
Against adversity diverse arrayed,
Against him minions of both fear and flight
As counsel him, that he be not afraid,
To take the coward’s choice and have betrayed
Himself, and as he heed such murderous minions,
Soul’s condemnation he yet not evade,
But sacrifice his heaven’s own dominions--
Despite he gain the world’s applause and high opinions.
Such is a man. The flavor of appeal
Courses within his veins, and rules his mind
So that he often calls to God with zeal
Wherein he may not consolation find,
For man must, unto fortune be resigned
When every effort his own agency
Have proffered, meets with failure, stars aligned
Against him, he may say—yet still he be
Required not to give way to mere complacency.
Blood will be spilled and scattered; bits of flesh
In the affray—yet still he not let up
But seek small respite wherewith to refresh
Amidst the battle, even as the cup
Of hopes be dashed so that he thenceforth sup
Upon the merest air as beaten thin,
Even as helpless as a stranded pup
Before machines of death, he face men’s sin
Tremendous, even as his own veins running in.
Blood will be spilled, and life as it was known
Changed utterly—yet still a man proceed
Upon a path, although it were not shown
With any clarity, which way it lead--
Still he proceed, and forward go, as heed
Some unknown lure that guides him, though he not
Discern the nature of the lure, decreed
Perhaps by heaven’s will, he may have thought,
Though, if such thought console him, yet ’tis not a lot.
This is the path for man, as he be kept
From ways extraneous by matters beyond
His own control—although he grow adept
At meeting situations as are found
With wit and cunning, yet he find no wand
Possessed of magic, as dramatic alter
His course, although it be the demimonde
Must claim him. In his path he must not falter,
Although it mean that he must penetrate Gibraltar.
Such is the way for man, and if he have
The usual warmth of blood within his veins,
Soon comes a woman—and to be her slave
He may submit, such as his hopes profanes,
Because in such a way he also gains
The wisdom of her counsel—as he gets
Rewarded compensation for his pains
Such as all detriment thereby acquits
In his own estimation, as his pride emits.
Yet such a woman were a Circe, or
Woman of pigs, nor dare his heart escape
While he be ruled by any that as whore
Reduce him to a thing not man nor ape,
But of his spirit mockery in shape
And turned into a thing of no potential--
Such is a man, a cub held by the nape
As under mother’s power deferential,
A man in form, but boy in all else as essential.
He were a victim to his own desire,
To roll around, with not even an ape’s
Dignity, with such woman as but fire
The seat of lust which eat him as he traipse
Into her lair, and though it seem he rapes
Yet he were captive, as he play the king,
And so he must be mocked by taunting’s japes
Deep in the spirit, all such comforting
Proffered unto a victim gotten with a sting.
Such is the way for man, yet such a man
Even Odysseus was, for he remained
With Circe and her pigs a lengthy span,
It might have been eternity, but pained
Was he that even though a part disdained
To leave, he made his way, and left her lair--
Pained by remembrance of the love sustained
At home, his heart returning ever there,
To where Penelope remained, forever fair.
Penelope, his wife, retained so rare
A love as was among all womankind
But scarcely seen and so therefore he dare
Fight all the world, although it make him blind
Within the gales of furious fate maligned--
Dare to return, not ceasing twenty years
In his attempt, although his pathway wind
Circuitous, yet his mind ever nears
That central purity, because toward it he veers.
She was his wife, and mother of a son,
Telemachus; so while a man would dally
With prostitute and whore, as some have done,
Becoming slave in flesh to that pig-alley
Out from which all life’s span some yet nor sally,
Yet he against the impulse fought, and drove
The spell of witchcraft down, yet so to rally
His forces yet required that kind of love,
That purity or else he had preferred to rove.
After long absence he returned to her
That had kept faithful, although he to wars
Had gone and many years it did appear
That he were lost for good, appeasing Mar’s
Venom for blood and appetite not sparse--
Despite that he might well have traveled forth
To other kingdoms, driven by the stars,
Where he might find of loves his pleasure’s worth,
Yet he returned home to his own held patch of earth.
His son greeted him, as had helped to keep
The honor of his household, as against
Usurping neighbors that cavorted cheap
Conspiring to transgress that which was fenced--
For even in man’s absence are commenced
Stirrings within the hearts of friends, relations,
Rebellious of authority dispensed
Unto a man—by crafty machinations
They deem to overthrow right order’s expectations.
It is the way of men, of humankind--
Jealousy, envy, these begin to grow
Even as lazy, slothful will be blind
To deficit as brought them unto woe,
Even as they convince themselves to go
Filch what their neighbor prosperous have earned,
Be rightful, virtue they themselves bestow
Falsely because another they have spurned
With slander, devious convocations not adjourned.
How easily will men convince themselves
That deprivation of another’s things
Be virtuous and rightful—impulse delves
In any heart, and treachery it brings
Against the person absent; complot slings
Approbatory words to justify,
Exonerate iniquity’s hirelings
To do their deeds, and garner them thereby
Indemnity from any conscience that may cry.
Thus faced the household of Odysseus
During his absence from the scene, as even
His wife Penelope was treated thus
To unwanted appeals from neighbors driven
By basest motivations—though were given
Unto Odysseus her rightful lord
Much disrespect thereby; yet it enliven
Man’s heart nor were a woman thus abhorred
As spurned false suitors whilst her husband was abroad.
A man may not, while there be true accord
Within society, as there must be
For men to live in peace and there be shored
Amongst the whole a true prosperity,
Violate any other’s property
Though opportunity may have presented
Itself, nor even—as Penelope--
Conjugal bond, since marriage were invented
For wealth of humankind, that it may be augmented.
That boundary by which a good belongs
Unto another man, all must protect,
Or else, deeply, the soul of man it wrongs
More than a sundry heart it may have wrecked,
For it is trust by which all men connect
In civil order—property no less
Than those relationships not circumspect
As form all moral order: to transgress
Against the household of a man creates a mess.
Society be needful of this trust,
Or all descend to scandal, disarray,
Relationships be turned into disgust
Such as wreak chaos when allowed to play
Wantonly, for divergence from the way
Of probity, when it have been displayed,
Causes the lot to fall into dismay,
Contentious quarreling as each get betrayed
In turn of some illegal profit he have made.
Such was a man, Odysseus, that faced
Adventures in the wild; and knew the harms
Men wreak upon each other, all the waste
Of warfare—yet he also knew the charms
Of gaining some sweet prize—such that it warms
Man’s heart to know—or rather, to believe--
That even though the world provide alarms
Against all virtue, since the time of Eve,
Yet man may find a woman not prone to deceive.
Only for such a prize, of virtue pure,
Did an Odysseus bother going home,
For man’s inconstancy no other cure
May find, when in his heart he likes to roam,
For all the world had been his pleasure dome
In endless new encounter, did he have
His preference, even as the far-off loam
Charms more than native soil, although a slave
It turn him and he get a pig-sty for a grave.
By magic Circe kept him; and like pigs
Groveled his men before her wanton power,
Nor even there were easily a brig’s
Confinement for such lusts as man devour,
But satiation soon must turn him sour
Have he been captive long to any Circe,
For even though she seem a pretty flower,
Beautiful in her body as a Dirce,
Yet too surpassing cruel as she accord no mercy.
Before her feet, men turned themselves to swine,
While even one, had been content to rest
Within her lair, except for home he pine--
Odysseus, too, so made her lair his nest,
A filthy nest which leave a man oppressed
Because she was not virtue’s emissary,
As only demons suckled at her breast,
Nor, in her lawlessness, as she so tarry,
In contrast to Penelope, thought she to marry.
How virtuous, to have a wife so pure!
Yet even while Odysseus cavorted
His neighbors plotted, that they might secure
Entrance unto his household’s treats assorted--
Yet even as their evil schemes were thwarted
By wifely probity and steadfast wile
Against their machinations, though exhorted,
By force they planned decorum to beguile,
Till he asserted claim, returning after while.
Let men respect another man’s domain,
Or it be house and hearth, his property,
Or, lest civil communion all get slain,
The women of a household all that be
Sequestered even as his treasury
Though they be wives or daughters of a man--
Let there come none, although by heraldry,
To violate, but rather all keep an
Astringent probity, not loosed by rule of clan.
The rule of mob absolves no one of crime,
As though he had been “carried by the flood,”
Excuse adduced by many at a time
To make it seem, they acted as they should,
Were not responsible, although no good
But rather consequences bad arose
From their behavior: men have understood
Each other’s obligation, each man knows
His own responsibility with others’ goes.
Yet look we now upon a man as had
Endured travail of long imprisonment,
Cut off from all the world, although no bad
Fault had been his, no crime whereby was sent
Himself to jail and lock-down, bars unbent
On every side, and even worse than that,
A wall between him and all men anent,
Though he knew some were lustily growing fat
While in his prison in his poverty he sat.
He hears the sounds about; the laughs, the cries,
Even as chirps of birds besounding joy,
While he alone but exhales many sighs,
Upon the rock, held captive since a boy
Because his lineage caught him in a ploy
That he find no escape from—so he rots
Solitary confined, aims to destroy
The walls that make his prison, but he gets
Not slight relief, but pains, and afterward regrets.
His arms are torn, the skin peels off like rags
Because he thrashed against the walls: a fool,
Why have I been a fool—so his mind drags
Him to the depths of his self-ridicule,
As even he knows that his fate is cruel,
That none may free him, none, and yet he hope
Beyond all hopefulness, and he bejewel
Mind’s flights of fancy—these that help him cope--
With emblems of despair; from these he weaves a rope.
’Tis fancy and imagination, all:
His senses tell him not where he is kept;
Darkness stands all about him; mind’s appall
Keeps him awake when he had rather slept,
Though to imprisonment, as grown adept
He bides his time, bides waiting, till he hear
Some sound that tell him someone near has stepped,
Steps in the stairwell—yet his mind, not clear
May have imagined it, discernment never near.
All is the stone and cold of mildewed walls
Surrounding him, nor blanket even to
Comfort him, finds he there, as it appalls
His mind and senses, so he must accrue
Indignities forever fresh and new
That grow out from the old, as he contain
Memory of all antiquity’s review
That courses in his veins, and causes pain
Because he must his present circumstance disdain.
High in the corner of his cell, a slight
Aperture, window, there beyond his reach,
Slotted with bars, and well above such height
As he may hope to reach—minutest breach
In walls of his captivity, yet each
Attempt he made unto its height to rise
Met failure, as it seem the world impeach
In its entirety, as fallacies
His motivations, as he seek to gain his prize.
For he was born of kings; and now the world
Forbids him access to its many treasures,
As he in prison wastes, dejected, curled
In insolence, and left to his own measures
The mind itself sustains and blossoms pleasures
Of self-creation—so he can sustain
Himself, because a prison grant no leisure’s
Tranquility, so too his will refrain
From lassitude, as he extrude his way through pain.
He has been manacled, and now there opens
The door before his eyes—and there he sees
A female, she the first, except for tokens
Of memory, that he have beheld, in these
Environs; so the incongruity’s
Enough to freeze his mind, as he recall
Vague intimations, at his mother’s knees
How he a child, within the palace wall
Had played, protected, ere calamity befall.
Whisked was he from the palace, taken to
A prison; there he languished many years,
So many he knew not, and as he grew
Learned that the world rest not as it appears
Unto a child, as never fraught with fears,
Knowing but love around him, both a mother’s
And father’s—though time’s intervention clears
Security of the fact, yet his mind bothers
To keep it fast, and he believe he may find others.
“I am your mother,” so this figure speaks
That stands before him in the doorway: “Come,
You must remember,” as it had been weeks
Of separation, since he were at home,
Not years, as even now his mind he comb
For detail—speaking silently but loud
In his own mind, resounding in the tomb
Of memory, such a question not allowed:
“Is this my mother?” as she have averred so proud.
“I held you in the palace on my knee,
But there were reasons, matters of the state,
For which, an it were by highest decree,
That you must be imprisoned, and how great
Had been my anguish, of so long a date,
But now I have been brought, to see you here,
For reason that I forthright shall relate,
And you receive me thus without a fear,
For I pity your place: a mother see it clear.”
Instantly so he grew ashamed, and hid
His nakedness, at which she merely laughed:
“If I had been a mother, what you did
Were futile, as you cover it by craft,
For you a baby were, though in his aft
A man have grown, a handsome one at that,
As does a mother proud, though time have chaffed
Her way with sorrow, years that I have sat
Missing an absent child, and sorrowed much thereat.”
Instantly in his mind he starts to think:
This must not be my mother. Years alone,
In solitude and living on time’s brink
Have been the only concourse he have known,
Yet in his mind, suspicions there have grown,
So though he want to fall into her trap,
Before him that appears a withered crone,
Of proffered mother’s love, he fear mishap,
And so his inner strength, herewith resolve to tap.
“Can it be that you doubt sincerity
Of these words that I speak?” So she declare,
And even so her hand extended be
To touch his flesh, an arm, however where
She toucheth him he feel a recoil there,
And know the hand were not a mother’s hand.
“You must remember.” Her words seem sincere,
Yet something tells him, words were falsely planned
To stir him to some purpose he not understand.
He think he see, or mind seem to detect
A rove within the eye, and lack of truth,
Though his mind race, and every fact be checked
Remembered from his ancient days of youth,
Scant recollection; even as she soothe
Him with her words, yet even with their stroke
Of sultry sound, the meaning strikes uncouth,
But his distrust, aversion they evoke,
Even as now his heart with sorrows seem to choke.
“Son, this is such a wretchèd place, uncouth,
As meant for thine own keeping—do not fear,
For every word I tell you is the truth,
And there’s a way to get you out from here.
Son, you have been entrapped many a year,
Within these walls, with even not a cloak
To cover you, more than a heart can bear,
To see my son so but make my heart broke
That have been broken”—so with words she probe and stroke.
“Remember well those early days before
Disruption came unto the palace, and
You were removed, my son that I adore;
So many useless hours my life has spanned
With worry for your sake, but you were banned
From palace ground by treachery of father,
The former king, an unjust reprimand
Against a wife, called sinful; but I rather
Forget the pain: we may see future joys foregather.
“You are my son, and rightfully the heir
To all the riches of a kingdom. Now
You are held captive in a danksome lair
In such condition man ought not allow--
Your father foully slain, you well know how
Before your eyes, at time of the abduction,
Yet that I would reclaim you was my vow,
And now, although I had to pass through ruction
And rage, to such a son I were drawn as by suction.”
Even as she thus speak he feel a shudder
Remembering how his father fell before
His eyes—yet he distrust hers were the udder
At which a baby suckled—he no more
Have sense of time, yet trust it were two score
Since he in infancy had sucked a teat:
That it were hers his mind must now deplore,
For should a baby thus detest a treat?
Thus thoughts within his mind, against her words compete.
“Many years I was housed by him the king
That ruled after your father’s own demise,
A prisoner myself. Though a weakling,
He held me captive as I were his prize!
Yet now, in order to legitimize
My place, as he is passed, you must consent
To name me, as you fitfully apprise
Me mother—for thereby you will be sent
Into the world, and so this prison shall get rent.
“Son, it is wrong, that you and I were each
Held captive, each imprisoned by a man
Unfit to rule, kept from another’s reach,
Mother and son, for such a lengthy span,
But we are reunited, this were an
Occasion wondrous, O my son, my son!
If you have dreamt to walk from here, you can,
And all the years of wastefulness be done!
Come with me, manacles and prison thus to shun!”
Even as she doth speak, so his heart say,
“This is no mother. I had rather die
Than by deceitful pageantry to pay
For freedom: let me keep eternity,
Or perish here!” So too his lips now cry
The words his mind have thought, without a pause
In their outpouring, rage and rancor fly
Against her, as it were to breach the laws
Of soul’s propriety, enlisting in her cause.
“You are no mother, but a flagrant witch
Come to seduce me with your charms and guile,
Even as now my arms begin to twitch
With rage, because you are a thing most vile,
And were I son, my heart must fill with bile
Against your machinations, to enthrone
Yourself to live by me in regal style,
Such crocodile tears that you have shown
Pretentious, claiming sentiment as weren’t your own.”
He speaks such words, because she has begun
To weep, and tears flow down, and as she weep,
Between her sobs she clamor, “O my son,
My son a mother’s heart is wounded deep,
That such shamed thoughts your tortured mind must keep,
Yet trust me, child, my angry, angry child,
A mother’s love weren’t gotten on the cheap,
And you have been cooped up, caged like a wild
Beast in a cave that will not be with words beguiled.
“You are but right to feel distrust for me--
Have they mistreated you? They that have been
Your captors for this long eternity
Of separation that should seem a sin,
But we are back together now, and in
Each other’s presence, mother, son, united,
So many years apart. How must I win
Your trust and your affection, be requited
In love which I proclaim. Let it not be benighted!
“O my sweet son, it aches a mother’s heart
To hear you curse me so. It’s not my fault,
Not from me your years’ agonies did start,
These years that must have been so difficult
Even as for me; now that we exult
In one another’s presence, now again
United, after years of pain, tumult,
Yet here today there is an end to pain,
The torments of your years may forcefully be slain.
“Son, feel these tears! Son, can a tear be faked?
Son, after all these years that you alone
Have waited, suffered, so my heart has ached,
As in a sort of prison it has known
Felt by a mother—known by anyone
That loved her son and was of him deprived,
The hardest penance that were ever done
By any, for the reason that she wived
Unto an ogre; still a mother’s love have thrived.”
He wonders to himself, what he should do.
Remembrance of the past begins to fill
His mind, its images both strange and new
While yet familiar; buried thoughts now spill
Into his consciousness; he watch men kill
His father that are killed themselves in turn;
Such memory of childhood, both for ill
And good, as even now his heart may learn
He were a king’s son, nor such lineage he spurn.
Now in his mind, and he a boy, a child,
He sees before his mother, not this thing
That now presents; as she upon him smiled,
As such communion’s joy each other bring;
But he, because he was son of a king
Was early torn from her, for all his life
Had all his past denied, though echoes ring
Within his mind subconscious, memory rife
Despite attempt to stifle it through ruse of strife.
Even as this he thinks, there now wells up
Within his mind a sound he hasn’t heard
In all his years’ captivity and cup
Of bitterness that no sane man preferred--
So now the ancient memory has stirred
Within his breast; so too his mind take aim
Upon the sound suppressed, that word-for-word
Ear hasn’t heard enunciated same
Since as a child, his long but not forgotten name.
“Omar Jesus,” she says, “you are my son--
So many years I’ve hoped to hold you thus,
My child, whom I love more than anyone,
And now, it seems, time has united us,
After so many years of strife and fuss,
And as we reunite now here today
Let us remain forever, overplus
Of joy be ours to claim, and so we may,”
Her words within his mind and his emotions play.
“Omar Jesus” the name that he was given,
Yet if he were a king’s son, any may
Know of his name, and so by profit driven
So use it his emotions thus to sway--
Thus he have thought; although he feel a ray
Of happiness to think that he have found
His mother—spoken in the Spanish way
The Lord’s name that with Omar does compound
To form a name of which he hasn’t heard the sound.
For many, many years, nobody called
Him by his name, in his captivity,
And yet his spirit weren’t like body walled
Behind a prison, but strove to keep free
Even against all form of villainy
By which he were beset—“Omar Jesus”
The name that he was given; or he be
Delusional, desire grown so obtuse
That he must now assent unto a woman’s ruse.
“My son, my son!” Her words begin again,
And so his mind begins to wonder—do
I heed the lies which she has told me then,
When such a touch, my body never knew?
This time he keeps it silent; no words spew
Forth from his lips, his true thought to reveal,
Until he have occasion to review,
So many new sensations now he feel,
As even now he know that her words hold appeal.
I have remained in prison for so long--
This now he thinks—so here may come a chance,
If I but keep my will and purpose strong,
And join with her, although it seem askance,
Within this play of words and merry dance,
Though it seem but deceit and trick’ry all--
Perhaps my prospects I may thus enhance,
Although I fear calamity befall
A second time do I escape from out this wall.
So are the thoughts within his mind. A smile
Plays on her lips. And he: “I do not know
If I may call you ‘Mother’ for a while,
Or ever, for my heart is beating so
With much confusion. I must take it slow--
For you are right, and there is little trust
Within my heart, that has known bitter woe
Which for a lifetime have it overplussed,
And yet I want to know, if what you speak is just.”
And she: “Doubt not, my son; my gentle boy
That is a boy no longer, but grown fully
A man these many years—the future joy,
But joy holds for you, and I swear it truly,
For freedom as befits a king’s son duly
So thou shalt have; and as I am the Queen
So fortune that has treated you thus cruelly
Will be reversed, and splendor but be seen,
You dressed in regal robe where nakedness has been.