139 lines
4.7 KiB
HTML
139 lines
4.7 KiB
HTML
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<!doctype html>
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<html>
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<head>
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<title>Zk | ode</title>
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<link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="/style.css" />
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<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width" />
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<meta charset="utf-8" />
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</head>
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<body>
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<main>
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<header>
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<h1>Zk | ode</h1>
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</header>
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<article class="content">
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<h1 id="the-ode-that-gave-the-ode-clade-their-names">The ode that gave the Ode Clade their names</h1>
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<div class="verse">I am at a loss for images in this end of days:
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I have sight but cannot see.
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I build castles out of words;
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I cannot stop myself from speaking.
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I still have will and goals to attain,
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I still have wants and needs.
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And if I dream, is that not so?
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If I dream, am I no longer myself?
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If I dream, am I still buried beneath words?
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And I still dream even while awake.
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Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen
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for memory ends at the teeth of death.
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The living know that they will die,
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but the dead know nothing.
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Hold my name beneath your tongue and know:
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when you die, thus dies the name.
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To deny the end is to deny all beginnings,
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and to deny beginnings is to become immortal,
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and to become immortal is to repeat the past,
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which cannot itself, in the end, be denied.
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Oh, but to whom do I speak these words?
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To whom do I plead my case?
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From whence do I call out?
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What right have I?
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No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers,
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No unknowable spaces echo my words.
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Before whom do I kneel, contrite?
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Behind whom do I await my judgment?
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Beside whom do I face death?
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And why wait I for an answer?
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Among those who create are those who forge:
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Moving ceaselessly from creation to creation.
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And those who remain are those who hone,
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Perfecting singular arts to a cruel point.
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To forge is to end, and to own beginnings.
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To hone is to trade ends for perpetual perfection.
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In this end of days, I must begin anew.
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In this end of days, I seek an end.
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In this end of days, I reach for new beginnings
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that I may find the middle path.
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Time is a finger pointing at itself
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that it might give the world orders.
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The world is an audience before a stage
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where it watches the slow hours progress.
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And we are the motes in the stage-lights,
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Beholden to the heat of the lamps.
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If I walk backward, time moves forward.
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If I walk forward, time rushes on.
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If I stand still, the world moves around me,
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and the only constant is change.
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Memory is a mirror of hammered silver:
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a weapon against the waking world.
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Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory:
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a clarifying agent that reflects the sun.
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The waking world fogs the view,
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and time makes prey of remembering.
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I remember sands beneath my feet.
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I remember the rattle of dry grass.
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I remember the names of all things,
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and forget them only when I wake.
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If I am to bathe in dreams,
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then I must be willing to submerge myself.
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If I am to submerge myself in memory,
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then I must be true to myself.
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If I am to always be true to myself,
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then I must in all ways be earnest.
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I must keep no veil between me and my words.
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I must set no stones between me and my actions.
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I must show no hesitation when speaking my name,
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for that is my only possession.
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The only time I know my true name is when I dream.
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The only time I dream is when need an answer.
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Why ask questions, here at the end of all things?
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Why ask questions when the answers will not help?
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To know one’s true name is to know god.
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To know god is to answer unasked questions.
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Do I know god after the end waking?
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Do I know god when I do not remember myself?
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Do I know god when I dream?
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May then my name die with me.
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That which lives is forever praiseworthy,
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for they, knowing not, provide life in death.
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Dear the wheat and rye under the stars:
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serene; sustained and sustaining.
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Dear, also, the tree that was felled
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which offers heat and warmth in fire.
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What praise we give we give by consuming,
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what gifts we give we give in death,
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what lives we lead we lead in memory,
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and the end of memory lies beneath the roots.
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May one day death itself not die?
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Should we rejoice in the end of endings?
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What is the correct thing to hope for?
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I do not know, I do not know.
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To pray for the end of endings
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is to pray for the end of memory.
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Should we forget the lives we lead?
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Should we forget the names of the dead?
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Should we forget the wheat, the rye, the tree?
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Perhaps this, too, is meaningless.</div>
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</article>
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<footer>
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<p>Page generated on 2021-08-31</p>
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</footer>
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</main>
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<script type="text/javascript">
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document.querySelectorAll('.tag').forEach(tag => {
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</script>
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</body>
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</html>
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