Unborn

I am increasingly convinced that poetry predates prose; that the origins of things are perfect, while their ends are hollow, and their mass is nostalgic degeneration.

Only what is imminent acts directly, without intercessors. Only the instant is pure.

And God, who is more than pure, is unborn; whatever comes into being has already begun to die.

Tradition is an attempt, at once ironic and sincere, to reflect the historical moment of divine inspiration which first gave birth to archetypes of supernatural potency.

To the greatest mystics, the founders of religions, these images are windows, signs, words, the purest expressions of language. To us, they are holy relics which resonate with a trillion secret meanings.

The most glorious utterances are charged with insight. Time and again, they have shown a power to catalyze revelations, and to trigger a domino-effect of many distinct points of light, once separate, now united by vast halos, overlapping penumbras of comprehension.

In their brevity, sayings of the wise are more prolific than volumes of the unenlightened.

Silence is still more so, if we know how to listen.