10-07-2017, 03:15 PM
sometimes
glass becomes the Whare
and what kind is that?
sometimes
Whare becomes the Utu
and what kind is that?
sometimes
the song is sung, dispersed
and what kind is that?
When the Pa is the Whenua and the Waitata is made to be the Tangi, does it matter: who, who cries her heart out for the ground shatters as would glass, the Tangihanga does not sing a Tillana, the Taua to kill the pain...an Utu is not the purpose at all, it is Tandava macabre, buried deep, released high, tapu, dowsing the world with frankincense...for somewhere between the boundaries of you and me or they and ours, all of us are magic, tears shed in the Thrul Lu from the lips of the Rudali echo the same sorrow, love.sorrow, love, leaving, left, going, going gone, the void filled with something less wholesome, and what kind is that? There are no hosts, only these Whare, made of glass, made of grass, made of skin and bones, how fragile, how fragile, how fragile that fortress that holds a seventy or a thousand, or a one hundred and forty, how fragile the anger of destruction, how inert everything in extension, Mathe, Mathe, Mathae, Jagathjanani, give us a healing, Mother Earth, Bhoodevi, grant us a prayer...