{"id":29283,"date":"2013-07-25T16:50:04","date_gmt":"2013-07-25T16:50:04","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/alternativejonestown.com\/?page_id=29283"},"modified":"2014-08-19T18:55:23","modified_gmt":"2014-08-19T18:55:23","slug":"efrein","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/jonestown.sdsu.edu\/?page_id=29283","title":{"rendered":"The Song of the Unmarked Graves"},"content":{"rendered":"

(Laurie <\/em>Efrein Kahalas is a regular contributor to<\/em> the jonestown report. Her previous writings may be found <\/em>here<\/em><\/a>. She <\/em>can be reached through <\/em>dan_laurie44@comcast.net<\/em><\/a>.)<\/em><\/p>\n

Once upon a time, so to speak, in what was then the urgent present, now just long ago, I had an epiphany: visions, premonitions, floods of words. It was 1974, four years prior to <\/em><\/strong>the shattering Jonestown Tragedy.<\/p>\n

I was shown a gathering of our people — many<\/span><\/em><\/strong> of our people. It was a warm setting with lush foliage; yet isolated, guarded, in a gathering place; just before dusk and on the heels of killings that no one could recall (\u201cslain men\u2019s bones\u2026. Hush, no recourse waits\u2026\u201c)<\/p>\n

I saw Jim Jones leading his flock into death, mourning their \u201cplunge one by one, towards the sea, \u2018neath the foam\u2026\u201c Some dying in peace, others in anguish, others in panic, others in fear, others in pride, others in tearful remembrance — the old, the young, weeping children\u2026.<\/p>\n

The story of \u201cAllegory<\/a>,\u201d my precognitive text about the tragedy, is recounted at \u201cPremonitions<\/a>\u201d located at Jonestown.com<\/a> \u2013 which is archived on this site \u2013 and in my book, Snake Dance<\/em>. Suffice it to say that it was\/is an exact, detailed PRE-record <\/em><\/strong>of what happened.<\/p>\n

I was freaked out for sure, but it was more. It was profoundly surreal; yet the tone of the text was not of terror — rather of compassion, grief infused with love, and with an especial heart wrench, \u201cthe song of the unmarked graves.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

In the poetic text, the first mention is in outrage: \u201cI listen to the song of the unmarked graves,<\/strong> and my wrath knows no delay!\u201d The second is in grieved acceptance: \u201cI listened to the song of the unmarked graves, <\/strong>and turned not away!\u201d The third is in post-death despair: \u201cThe song rises from a thousand unmarked graves, <\/strong>its strains filtering through thin dawn. Rasping — wrestling to expound in a dark, uncertain key, to express in wavering tones a dirge too low to justly grieve, a song too weak for too-wrong deaths! One voice rises higher than foul-decaying flesh, \u2019All power to thee!\u2019 Yet where even spectres scarcely cry\u2026\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

This was a group going down to not just physical doom, but worldwide scorn (\u201cand though all men may revile your name\u2026 Now the vultures come\u2026 they pick, pluck, peck, tear at your flesh with cruel-eyed intent\u2026\u201d)<\/p>\n

Yet what terrified me even more than the text was fear of the cult\u2019s response — especially its volatile leader! Hardly an overreaction, as I soon enough learned.<\/p>\n

Oh, I had tried to just tell<\/span><\/strong> Mr. Jones, along with the word \u201cfrightening.\u201d I needed some private, protected response. But he just glowered at me like, was I mad? I still hoped against hope, but that hope was dimming.<\/p>\n

Thus I gathered a tiny group for a trial reading. All I stated as an introduction was, \u201cThis work is about the death of Jim and many of our people.\u201d<\/p>\n

It took just days to get back to Jim Jones, and then suddenly there was hell to pay! No one asked how such a tragic-yet-luminous text (\u201cJust like Shakespeare!\u201d the person who turned me in said\u2026)<\/em><\/strong> had manifested, just that it must be malignant fantasy. I was obviously \u201cway out of line\u201d — narcissistic, uncaring, just for writing poetry at all! I had to be castigated and ridiculed for it.<\/p>\n

Oh, and it got worse. I guess Jim needed some lead time to concoct \u201creasons why she must want me dead.\u201d (And what about \u201cthe other thousand\u201d people? Not that I wanted ANYONE<\/em><\/strong> dead!)<\/p>\n

By the time he had corralled the sadistic bullies amongst us into a lynch mob (one that had no reason to think that anything they were yelling was true!), I was painted as a manipulator, a liar, cold and unfeeling, disloyal, treacherous, demanding — I mean, whatever I had NEVER been in that group, suddenly that was what I supposedly WAS.<\/p>\n

I had never asked anything <\/em><\/strong>for myself when I was in the church. And most certainly, I had never asked, much less demanded, anything of Jim Jones personally.<\/p>\n

But that night, Cassandra was handed over to the dark side, so to speak. I was face-to-face with a man terrified of his own fate; yet (God knows how), the only person who seemed to know what that fate was, was me<\/span><\/strong>. Thus I \u201chad to pay\u201d with a brutal wrongful scapegoating. Maybe at least abject humiliation would \u201cteach me a lesson.\u201d<\/p>\n

Well, it was a cruelly misguided \u201clesson,\u201d nor was I the one needful of any \u201clesson\u201d in the first place. I just needed, we all needed a leader who was not so terrified of his own fate, that he knee-jerked us collectively into an even worse<\/span><\/em><\/strong> fate.<\/p>\n

But that said, I would say that us humans are here on Earth to be empowered, not disempowered, when our hearts are right, whatever the loss or pain. Thus I reclaim my voice upon finally consecrating the dead, so as to better confer dignity upon THE DECEASED.<\/p>\n

Somehow (literally \u201cGod knows how\u201d) I was given \u201cAllegory\u201d all those years back as AN ENTRUSTMENT<\/strong>. I would even be glad to offer it anonymously, for surely this was given on behalf of everyone<\/span><\/strong>. I\u2019ve just been out-there too visibly for anonymity to be possible.<\/p>\n

We are just (well, us humans) oftentimes too quick to judge and too slow to see what is right in our midst. We find even in the bible \u201cBeware of strangers, lest thou be entertaining angels unaware.\u201d And no, I\u2019m probably no \u201cangel\u201d personally. Yet too many have spurned me as \u201ca stranger\u201c to this day; and yes, they\u2019ve done that to the very one touched by some true \u201cAngel\u201d Who tried to warn us, yet got no further than a lynch mob reception.<\/p>\n

Yet I tell you THIS not only to un-do THAT, but because I not only believe, but profoundly know, that whatever it SEEMED like in all its horror, that not a single person at Jonestown, even (or especially) the smallest child, died untouched by the most profound compassion from higher, unseen planes, even as humans trespassed the laws of God and man both.<\/p>\n

And that even though we may never fully comprehend; and however it causes anguish, there are still ways, MANY ways, to dispel the profound DIS-honor of how this story came down in the world.<\/p>\n

Honoring the dead with the memorial plaques is way overdue, and thank God that that is finally done. It is my hope that other clearings might emerge as well. This is a great, needed, overdue memorial; though even at that, not enough.<\/p>\n

Without further ado, this is \u201cAllegory\u201d exactly as it was written back then. I\u2019ve just added sectional divisions (it was originally written in one continuous flow), as it now being set musically for chorus and orchestra.\u00a0 May all be graced and blessed\u00a0by every measure of their hearts.<\/p>\n

\u201cALLEGORY\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

I. The Land Lies Barren and Waste<\/strong> <\/strong><\/p>\n

The land lies barren and waste — the wake of unprecedented devastation<\/em>!<\/em>
\nIt is the dying of the day.
\nHe stands at the penultimate hour of tribulation!<\/em>,<\/strong>
\nand even the air is fraught with a deathly still.<\/p>\n

By his side is a child \u2013 whom fate could ordain to lead an entire race<\/em>!<\/em>
\nNow –\u2018neath the dim fire of dawning stars,
\ndusk shrouds each<\/span><\/em> tender face.<\/p>\n

They are surrounded by a wall that is both massive, and clothed in heavy guard.
\nThere is no known means. . . . of escape!<\/em>
\nA na<\/span>—-tion… is DY<\/span><\/em>——-<\/span>ing<\/strong>.
\nG-g-g-g-…god I<\/span>—s. . . in A—-<\/span><\/em>
\ngony<\/strong>. . . . and no-one speaks. . . . .<\/p>\n

II. On My Left Hand Stands a Child<\/strong> <\/strong><\/p>\n

On my left hand stands a child. On my right hand stands a wall.
\nIn my heart all is still, though Titans fall: And pa–a-a-A<\/span><\/em>–triots grIE-ie-ie–ieve. . .
\n\u201cLeave this place, itinerant one!,\u201d a suppliant cries.
\n\u201cLeave this place, Prometheus!<\/em>
\nMankind has more need of thee than these few.. . . last. . .
\nHas-ten thee!\u201d<\/em>
\nMy heart is still. I only<\/em> see this<\/span> child. . .<\/p>\n

III. No One Knows Me<\/strong> <\/strong><\/p>\n

No one knows me –why I give all\u2014<\/strong>,
\nthough the moment to intercede is past, or has not yet come. . .:
\nNo. I am not<\/em> numb.
\nMy nerve-fibers bristle with a surfeit of senseate ache. . . .
\nMy voice cries slumberless!<\/em> —<\/strong> through thinnn dawnnn. . . .
\nI listen: to the song of the un-marked graves, \u201c<\/strong>Gone!, Gone!,\u2019\u201d<\/em>
\nand my wrath knows NO<\/span><\/strong>delay. . .
\nYet my heart lies oh, so ocean-still. . . .
\nSwallows glide numberless o\u2019er the waves. I see them plunge one by one,
\ntowards the sea, \u2018neath the foam. My own heart sinks<\/em> with thee. . .<\/p>\n

IV. I Remember<\/strong> <\/strong><\/p>\n

I remember –lest my heart still seem a cool green meadow-home\u2014
\nwhere trees would grow and swallows nest, and little children come to play,
\none by one– how you<\/span>
\ncame –washed in pain!<\/em>— \u2018neath the setting of the sun, a raging, moon<\/em>-swept sea,
\nwrest from every hour and age, from every time and need:
\nFrom the childhood of your questioning eyes,
\nfrom the wasted youth of your unrefrained desire,
\na fire that only dies, dies, dies. . . .
\nFrom a land where dreams are cast aside, fortunes capsized and turned,
\nlives submerged and lost. . .
\nIn the madness of your thwarted cries, for \u2018Time!\u2019<\/em> — past<\/em> <\/strong>all reprieve!
\nBegging amnesty for all sins past; and destiny of all future<\/span><\/em> guise. . . .
\nAnd each one asked a favor. And each one asked a wile.
\nAnd no child thought one<\/em> drop of sweetness drawn could exile mean
\nfrom such a sweet, sweet<\/span><\/strong> land. . .
\nI remember — lest your dreams, love, still seem
\na reverie that gods<\/em> would fire and breathe,
\nmake real for thee and glean -\u2013
\nas you think, \u201cOh how good, how sweet, how fine to come as a little child,\u201d
\nhow I<\/span><\/em>listened to the song of the unmarked graves: \u201c<\/strong>Gone!, Gone!,<\/em>\u201d<\/strong>
\nand turned NOT<\/span><\/strong>\/ away. Aye,
\nNo vision will bring peace. No. No longing will bring calm, nor even a balm,
\nnot for me, but even for thee: as
\nthe grey world waits, and orphans shamefully <\/em>weep; and you hear the pleas
\nto see, to feel, to know, to speak:
\nTo remember!!!<\/em> –lest this moment die deep<\/strong> within the dying of a
\nworld\u2019s <\/em>last rays, in vain–:
\nhow you too came, and exclaimed in ecstatic murmurings,
\n\u201cOh my Saviour, just<\/em> in time!\u2019 — as
\nthe grim earth quakes with failing breath, and faltering steps, with scarcely time at all:
\nToo late to mend, progressed past arrest— too soon for men to heed and grasp—
\nHaunted the past, the future —foredoomed<\/em>!– looms and
\ncries, cries, cries its all-too-present deaths!!!!<\/em>
\nWHY——–<\/em> have you slept? WHY——<\/em> have you slept?
\nWHY. . . . . .<\/em> have you. . . slept?\u201d<\/p>\n

V. Yes, It Is Time Indeed<\/strong> <\/strong><\/p>\n

Yes, it is time indeed! And though it bring me only grief to impart to you
\nthe graveness<\/em> of this day –what you must do and know and say–:
\nThough it brings my heart to your keenest need, though you\u2019d not believe it, I say:
\n\u201cI give to you the best<\/em> <\/strong>of days!\u201d
\n–(And some shuddered. And some were like stone.
\nAnd some walked on, on, on. . .)–:
\n\u201cTo live in a hallowed grief. . . . . .or freely die!!\u201d<\/em>
\nAnd some ran. And some turned. And some faltered. And some hid.
\nYet some rose brave, and claimed:
\n\u201cYou see, there is no garden here, only what you\u2019ve<\/span> made of need, of fear, of pain:
\n(I came, I love. . I feed. . . .). . .
\n\u201cThere never was <\/span>a garden-home — only what your pain, your need would prescribe.
\nAnd when you laid your woes on this altar of ALL<\/span> life, you relinquished all claim<\/em>. . .<\/strong>
\nto distance. . . apathy. . . or retreat:
\nArise, ye people, wake! A-RI————SE. . . . . . . .:\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

VI. As a Swallow Cast In Flight<\/strong><\/p>\n

Their voice fell, snow-silent as a dying dove,
\nas a swallow cast in flight — towards death, towards night,
\n\u2018loft a brimming breath<\/em> of the dark-dawned sea. . . . .
\nAnd the sentries of my heart did grieve, and sorrowfully shook their heads:
\n\u201cAye, it\u2019s true, I fear. There is no garden here.
\nThey have plucked the fruit — the best!<\/em>
\nNow none can enter- in. . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

VII. Who Will Hold You Strong Now<\/strong> <\/strong><\/p>\n

Who would hold you strong now as you shook, and wept, and grieved?
\nWho will move on (–while you sleep–), as the wars rage and innocents die?
\nMy heart —laid waste!<\/em>— would cry, bleed, drain \u2018neath the dead
\nweight<\/em>. . . of slain men\u2019s bones. . . .
\nCRUSH(shshsh)—-ed.<\/strong>
\nHush. No recourse waits. My heart has known its last reprieve.
\nMy heart beats on, on, on. I would not deceive you: it has been long to come.
\nYet when all is known, yet when all is done, it puzzles me:
\nThough you long not <\/span>for pain, yet\/ you long not for love<\/span><\/em>:
\na love to make you strong!<\/span>
\nWhilst love is cast; your will is bent; and you wither. . .
\nwithin the sweet rays of my love with no<\/span> protest . .?
\nOh, mourn not your garden-loss! Love in this present place is a fearful<\/span> thing,
\nan awesome weight.
\nLove –as a memory– can be kissed and blessed — recognized, reconciled,
\nyea! — extolled!<\/span><\/em>
\nAnd you\u2019ll hear it as though the light of the Sun were sound, a gold far chime. He said:<\/p>\n

VIII. He Said, \u201cCome, My Sons, My Daughters<\/strong>\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cCome, my sons, my daughters, a new world\u2019s<\/em> at your behest.
\nI would bring you through the slaughter. I will bring you through each<\/em> test.
\nThough men be blind, and falter, I—<\/span><\/em> give credence to your best!
\nThat my heart would be your altar, and my love would be your rest.\u2019\u201d
\nThe sentries round the outer wall are brute and gray:
\n\u201cNo. I never saw him pass this way — BE GONE!!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

IX. Now You\u2019ll Gather \u2018Round<\/strong> <\/strong><\/p>\n

Now you\u2019ll gather \u2018round. Soon it will all be told to thee.
\nThose who gather in a quickening trust shall hold.
\nAnd with my vision as your eyes —a searing fire!<\/em>–:
\nyou\u2019ll know, you\u2019ll know, you\u2019ll know, why I must
\nsend you forth as a warrior into the darkest night—
\nsend you forth as a warrior to uphold and claim<\/span><\/em> the right!
\nAnd I send you forth a proud<\/em> warrior, divest of dreams and wanton hopes.
\nFor the shelter of my heart a fortress is, a tower shall be, and you shall scale its walls.
\nThe power of the poor, the low is with thee, if you will just give all!
\nAnd I send you forth a warrior!<\/em>
\n–He who bringeth peace. . . The gentlest one. . .–
\nHe who bringeth the sword!!<\/em><\/p>\n

X. And You Can Be the Noblest Ones<\/strong> <\/strong><\/p>\n

And you can be the noblest ones to grace this earth.
\nFor I send forth you last first<\/em>-born of this anguished place!
\nYet I send forth you last as first, into no midst of battle-blaze;
\nbut only through this dim dawn\u2019s haze. . . .
\nAnd one died. And I laid him in a shelter \u2018neath the trees. His day is done.
\nThe sun did not scorche his lithe frame. Nor did many grieve for him.
\nHe seemed so calm (–pass on!–) <\/em>and overborne with shade.
\nAnother died — as he sobbed wretchedly on his last, torn breath,
\n\u201cThat I might live<\/span> to redeem a travesty of mistakes, trials, and sorrows!\u201d<\/em>
\nWho cried for him, cried past rest; and nestled at last within a web of insulate pain.
\nYet another died — as with a shout, he cried:
\n\u201cMy<\/em> death shall be avenged by all brave women and men!\u201c
\nI would not bury him<\/span> –though the very oceans weep–,
\nbut I laid him \u2018neath the setting of the sun,
\nfor all mankind to see, and justly grieve:
\nThe epiphany of me<\/span> — flesh of my flesh, pain of my pain. . . .
\nMy heart is full. . . still. . . sealed. . . . . contained.<\/p>\n

XI. Now the Vultures Come<\/strong> <\/strong><\/p>\n

Now the vultures come –grey carrions of death–:
\nthey pick, pluck, peck, tear<\/em> at his flesh with cruel-eyed intent, and crudely jest:
\n\u201cI<\/span><\/em> will save thee.\u201d Ha!, mock call! Who will save thee<\/span> this day?
\nSo few would enter in, and stay.
\nAnd as they incessantly peck at his bile in rude thrusts, they even smile,
\nbecause \u201cIt is not He,\u201d they<\/em> say.
\nHumanity, humanity, will you not<\/span><\/em> be saved?
\nAnd the martyrs bleed. And hypocrites<\/em> pray!,
\none by one. Now they plunder, and disarray the nest. The land is bereft of trees.
\nChildren weep. Grief has expended its war-born toll.
\nNow the sentries wait.<\/p>\n

XII. The Guardians of My Heart Are Crimson, Dark and Green<\/strong> <\/strong><\/p>\n

The guardians of my heart are crimson, dark, and green.
\nThe guardians of the wall are brute and grey.
\nWeep not, my little child, for I do encircle thee, though this day, your die is cast:
\nThough flanked by \u201cliars and thieves!,\u201d they<\/span><\/em>say,<\/p>\n

XIII. This Day You Are Christened<\/strong> <\/strong><\/p>\n

this day you are christened: crowned in autumn leaves,
\nand bedecked in new-fallen snow:
\nYou\u2019ll be not afraid, you\u2019ll see a road, you\u2019ll know<\/span> a way.
\nYour greens have turned to amber now, your golds will blaze and fade:
\nno longer a child to be.
\nYou\u2019ll set upon a long, untrammelled road, to set my people free!<\/em>
\nAnd though all men may deny your fate, and though no man may know your name —
\nThough you\u2019d be defamed!,<\/em>
\nTHAT<\/span><\/strong> day lead forth a company of daughters and sons.
\nThink. But think not, \u201cWho will choose? Who will stand? Who will stay? Who will lose all?\u201d
\n(What had you<\/em> to find, lost child? incipient warrior? antithetical god?)
\nYou must move on this ominous day, whate\u2019er<\/em>befall your fate!
\nFor I have made a covenant with thee.
\nI appear to be in chains. Yet I shall leave thee . . . .<\/em>FREE!<\/em>
\nOnly three things did I ask:
\nThat you vow to move on, though every sign may read, \u201cNo hope.\u201d
\nThat you know you are right, though every step are your feet alone.
\nThat you never turn back.
\nAnd some said, \u201cI will see.\u201d And some cried, \u201cIt is pain!<\/em>\u2019\u201d
\nAnd some claimed, \u2018I need thee past<\/em> victory, agony, \u2026.or demise.\u2019
\nBut still the covenant remains, if only one its honor give.
\nFor as I<\/span><\/em> live, I would share all with thee. And with each
\nnerve<\/em>-torn fiber of my time<\/em>-worn heart, I proclaim, \u2018I\u2019d stay!<\/em>\u2019
\nYet all I would say, you would never listen.
\nThus you <\/span>must weep, and you <\/span>must bleed, and you<\/span> must grieve.
\nYet you must speak!:<\/em>
\nI spoke for all, I spoke for each one that none would defend, nor hear, nor save.
\nI spoke to free each slave, from unjust shares, ruthless gains, the power<\/span> men crave.
\nI spoke of prisons, youth, and unsung graves. . . .
\nNone spoke more true, none spoke more brave. Yet you <\/span>must speak, too,
\nwhere the un<\/span>-spoken –devastatingly!–.<\/em> failed:
\nThe deliberate mercies; the reckless affirmations;
\nthe joy feigned, and the agony well-concealed.
\nNo<\/span>. It did its work too<\/span> well, in a way. . .
\nBut if this earth continues to quake, race against race, war after war —
\nIf the bondage will not break, for laureates will not rise to the fore —
\nIf the valiant will not stand, to defend their own though laid waste is their land! —
\nIf you deny the oppressed a home, or leave this call to fend alone– then– though–
\nall this heart would render a–ches<\/span><\/em> — you\u2019ll not feel its pain, you\u2019ll not heed its law–
\nThough my heart for you asun-der BRE—— – EA–K-S. . . .<\/strong>
\nThen shall I speak no more; then shall I speak<\/span> . . .no more.\u201d<\/p>\n

XIV. The Song Rises<\/strong><\/p>\n

The song rises from a thousand<\/em> un-marked graves,
\nits strains filtering through thin dawn. . .<\/p>\n

XV. Rasping, Wrestling<\/strong> <\/strong><\/p>\n

Rass–ping<\/em>.<\/strong> Wrestling to expound in a dark, un-certain key;
\nto express in wavering tones a dirge too low to justly grieve,
\na song too weak for too-wrong deaths!!
\nOne voice rises higher than foul-decaying flesh,
\n\u201cAll power<\/em> to thee!\u201d
\nYet: where even spectres scarcely cry:
\n\u201cArise! Arise!<\/em> The last shall fall to thee<\/em>.
\nThe last shall<\/em> fall<\/em>. . . to thee. .\u201d
\nYou longed for interpretation. But the interpreter is gone.
\nThe play is done. Now you<\/em> the player shall be.
\nOnly the silent voice within speaks plain, to you, true bearer of the faith:<\/p>\n

XVI. You Stand Alone<\/strong><\/p>\n

You stand alone. Hence I send you<\/span><\/em> forth.
\nThrough cal<\/span>varies of night, on this pil<\/span>grimage of dry dust, and blistering rain.
\nThough men be blind, you see a distant light.
\nThough men be dumb, you speak with fervent <\/em>tongue —
\nyet all you greet are blind, and deaf, and dumb. . .
\nAnd so –unwavering!–, you climb<\/span> the wall, though men\u2019s
\nbrute <\/strong>guns wait<\/strong> at your feet, hoist<\/strong>
\nthe sweet-<\/strong> child aloft your shoulder blades, to meet<\/strong> your call:
\nWith your left hand, you secure his hold. With your right hand now you lift
\na proud torch, and journey on — un<\/span>-fed, un<\/span>-bedded, un<\/span>-shorn:<\/p>\n

XVII. Black Prometheus<\/strong><\/p>\n

BLACK<\/strong> Prometheus!, your face is richly dark, and no fire-flies guide your feet.
\nThus your flames are pure<\/strong> —
\nBLACK<\/strong> Prometheus!, wanderer through ten thousand nights and days — first, last–
\nto endure this earth\u2019s cruel sacrifice fate.
\nPrometheus, you are verdant black: dark, yet green. Strafed! Yet exudant of life!
\nPrometheus, you are black– proud tower of light:<\/p>\n

XVIII. None Will Feel the Pure Still Heart of Thee<\/strong> <\/strong><\/p>\n

Shine forth!<\/strong> Cry out!<\/strong> Cry loud!<\/strong> Cry FREE—<\/em>. . . . . .<\/strong>
\nCry grief, Promethean one, for all this darkening world –alas!– has need of thee,
\nyet turns, turns, turns:
\nNone will feel the pure, still heart of Thee, TURNS!<\/em>
\nNone will speak Thy words of life.
\nTURNS!<\/em> Nor take this surrogate plight, turns,
\nturns!!<\/em> Thy mountain glimmers with a light too bright for Man to see!
\nNone see that no sun pours down light more radiant <\/strong>than your brave eyes <\/em>—
\nturns, turns, turns:<\/strong>
\nPrometheus spurned! — Bound<\/strong>. Yet free—. . .<\/em>
\nA vulture\u2019s glee are your inward wounds and pains
\n–makes mockery of your chains– TURNS!:<\/em>
\nYet still this self-same tragedy confirms:
\nMankind –not thee– is doomed. Mankind has bound himself<\/span> in chains!!:<\/p>\n

XIX. Go Forth, Prometheus<\/strong>!<\/strong><\/p>\n

Go forth, Prometheus!!, from this <\/strong>ALIEN RACE!!!<\/em>
\nTo another clime, to another time and place. Where your face is not
\n\u201cAn anathema!\u201d<\/em> to the blind; nor your words, \u201cA blasphemy!\u201d<\/em> to the deaf.
\nWhere free beings speak — where dreams are left behind, for goodness lives<\/em>. . .
\n\u201cNo one knows me, why I give<\/span> all. . .\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

XX. Then At Some Fine Indeterminate Point of Distant Reckoning<\/strong><\/p>\n

Then, at some fine, indeterminate point of distant reckoning:
\nyou will<\/span> be seen as a rising, waxing star —
\nAye. Too late, too dim, too far. . . .
\nSeen and known to raise the very angels<\/span> from their rest. . . .
\nto tread the purest edge of quickening sun. . . .
\nBid each, last, grief-laden one a new farewell– smile; nod; \u201cBe bra—-ve.\u201d<\/em>
\nWave one last, fast-fading farewell. . . . . .
\nPity the earth-hell-grave<\/strong>. Then tur——-n<\/em>. . . :
\nTo eternally tread that path forlorn, from dawn, to dawn.
\n(in the beginning there will always BE—<\/em> but thee. . .) to
\nDi——-mmm———–ly fil– ——-tering daw———nn–.-n . .-n . . .<\/p>\n

XXI. The Tears Flow Now Finally<\/strong> <\/strong><\/p>\n

The tears flow now finally,<\/em> in full, pouring torrents<\/em> of
\nbitter-sweet, salt, and dusky rain!
\nWho you would have taken with<\/span> you!
\nYet so few would chance the rude, hard journey
\nto the very heart of the most . shining . five . pointed . star. . .<\/em>
\nHow many you would have taken<\/em> with you! But now, it will all be too late. . . .
\nNow it is not a matter of who you would –with full, sweet<\/em>-willing heart!–
\ncarry aloft your back.
\nNow it is all —only!–<\/em> what you would leave to remain.
\nYour mission of rescue has become —TRAGICALLY!!<\/em>— a mission of legacy.<\/p>\n

XXII. Yet Your Heart Is Still<\/strong> <\/strong><\/p>\n

Yet your heart is still. Not a moment\u2019s waver, not a shade.
\nYou\u2019d lay down your hallowed, yet weary frames;
\nEven humble yourself to be called just, \u201cthe last of men, the first of saints.\u201d
\nFor them to trample, scorn, and maim– for them to castigate, denigrate, and shame–
\n\u201cNO. IT IS WORSE YOU\u2019VE MADE TRAVESTY<\/strong> <\/strong>
\nOF MY <\/strong>SPI<\/span><\/em>——– RI—–TT!!\u201d<\/em> <\/strong>
\nFor only the non-flesh-ridden to extol the NA—–AA———–mmme—–. . . <\/em>.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

(Laurie Efrein Kahalas is a regular contributor to the jonestown report. Her previous writings may be found here. She can be reached through dan_laurie44@comcast.net.) Once upon a time, so to speak, in what was then the urgent present, now just long ago, I had an epiphany: visions, premonitions, floods of words. It was 1974, four […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":6,"featured_media":0,"parent":29512,"menu_order":2,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-29283","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/jonestown.sdsu.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/29283","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/jonestown.sdsu.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/jonestown.sdsu.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jonestown.sdsu.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/6"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jonestown.sdsu.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=29283"}],"version-history":[{"count":12,"href":"https:\/\/jonestown.sdsu.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/29283\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":60932,"href":"https:\/\/jonestown.sdsu.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/29283\/revisions\/60932"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jonestown.sdsu.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/29512"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/jonestown.sdsu.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=29283"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}