At Tihuanaco he stepped ashore
Washed up on foreign lands
Bringing with him knowledge
And the skill of ancient hands
He sculpted tombs and palaces
Carved crops into the plains;
Clear blue silver water
Flowed freely through his veins
Mama Occlo; Manco Capac;
Gods beneath the sun
Spread colour from their woven hearts –
The New World had begun…
Pouring out of the city beneath the Rising Sun Clock, the crowds jostled and weaved, thronging the well-trodden paths to distant meetings and markets. The colours of their bodies leaked into the sky to mingle with the clouds and slowly darkened the day with a heavy hue, until the Sun Clock faded and they trod wearily home, colourless once more.
Riding mostly in the dark corners of ocean-going cargo ships, they escaped their home port of DUST, and travelled across the globe. Living by their wits, the two friends imagined themselves to be royal princes on a legendary adventure – even as they carefully cleaned the fleas and filth from their hair.
They painted their bodies with skill and care, killed only for food or justice, loved the earth and family with passion, worked under the sun and stars, and their feet connected them fully to the ground that gave them life.
Cocooned in a swirl of leaves, she unveiled her sadness to the dancing jungle, and for a moment – just a moment – even the animals fell silent, as if in contemplation, or sympathy, or shame.
The Shaman stood guard for three days and nights as the newlywed Royals – bedecked in all the finery their elevated status demanded – accepted his silent blessing and stern entreaties to the Gods, all the while clasping each others hands in secret passion beneath the heavy patterned robes.
For weeks he scanned the horizon with dark eyes. His intensity froze him to stone in the barren desert, and his kinsfolk could not move him. Just as night fell on the sixteenth day, small shapes danced on the distant dunes, twirling and leaping ever nearer in a frenzy of joy and longing.
His call had been answered – his vigil was ended.
Now he could sleep.
The sand so deep
The land so wide
The stillness on which echoes glide
The land so wide
The sand so deep
The burning blue; so vast; so steep
And only truth remains in stone –
An age of glass, an age of bone
An age of ruin, an age of glory –
And every face tells a story…
Underneath the million skies
Only bodies burn and die,
While spirit, magic, myth live on
Silent voice to those now gone
And we who walked the sand
The time before the time before,
Are pleased to be all rock and dust
Blown on the wind, and so; no more
This is part of the Distant Times collection
In the deepest night
At the coldest hour
In the trembling stars
The Sun God’s Flower
Travels safe
Within the womb
– the Heaven River
Goddess Tomb –
And Shu holds Geb
Upon the sand
While Nut uplifts
In Tufnet’s hand
And sleeping Ra
Wakes to rebirth
One single star
Falls to the earth
Philip Downs is building his new website, please check back again soon for dollops of colourful loveliness.
