The Four Faced Wind

Poetry by Valeria Castellanos


July 2018

The Garden

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“The Red Moon” “The Garden” – Digital Compilation by V. Castellanos

We went into the garden,
To plant a seed,
And, watch it grow.
But, then I found,
That someone else,
Was walking in the garden.

Someone was there.
I could not see.
And, evil never dies.

There are voices in the garden now,
Voices without faces,
Voices whispering,
To the innocent ones,
Things it does not mean for us to know.

And, there is laughter in the garden,
Which is neither mine nor yours.
It is not the kind of laughter,
Which I like to hear.

This sound does not belong in the garden,
This dark sound,
Crawling behind the indigo, poison shadows.
This is not the humming of hummingbirds.
It is murmuring,
Dark and torpid murmuring,
Murmuring from under the fountains,
And, from under the grayness under the stairs.
It is not the sound of green or sun,
Or, the joy of praying mantis’ prayers.

I cannot understand the murmured whispers,
But, the innocent ones are laughing,
And, this is not the smell of flowers,
Or, beehives filled with honey.

Something in the garden is calling,
Calling to the innocents,
Calling, calling gray and thin,
Like the sound of chilling rain,
Calling, thin and hollow,
Calling the innocent ones,
To bring their souls,
And, to come into the garden.

Now, I am hearing songs in the garden,
Songs you and I have never sung.
The innocent ones are humming the songs,
Humming the songs,
Humming the gray and hunting refrains.

I fear that the innocent ones will think,
This is only a game.
I fear that the garden will lure them away,
And, they will be tricked,
Into trading their souls for trinkets.

The flowers in the garden are withered,
And, the voices in the shadows are gathering faces.
The gate to the garden is standing open.
Neither you nor I would have left it that way.

I do not remember another time,
Of so many spiders and spider’s webs.
And, there are so many whispers,
Whispering, whispering,
Thin and cold,
Like the sound of chilling rain.

The innocent ones are whispering now,
And, speaking in tongues,
Whispering now and humming,
Singing and laughing,
The laughter I do not like to hear.

I do not want to go into the garden.
The withered flowers have gathered faces,
And, the faces are faces,
You and I have never seen.
The voices never cease their calling,
Murmuring, whispering, moaning,
Humming the hunting refrains,
Of music I don’t understand.

I do not want to go into the garden.
I do not want to go out,
Into the poison, indigo shadows.
Not even just to close the gate.
I do not want to go into the garden,
Of so many spiders and spider’s webs,
The garden of grayness from under the fountain,
From under the stairs.
But, the garden is the whole world,
And, so I have to go.


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I am a barefooted wanderer, On a road not of my making, Adrift between landscapes of light and thunderstorms of evil, Entangled in forests which hide the underground earth, With wild weeds and the aroma of roses. Ephemeral like a leaf already fallen out of the tree, Out of the clouds, Out of the songs of the stars hidden behind the daylight.

I let down my hair and I walk beyond solemn visaged cities devoid of reality, Shunned by miracles, Filled with angles and corners in which demons dwell, Temptations swell, Cathedrals full of deceit and conceit, games of guilt and sin, trying to win, pity and gold, control and adornment. Madness following madness.

I have mistaken the blue heron for shadow, And, I have thought the moon was a smile interrupting my dreams, Coming closer than ever before, While I was aglow like the ripest sunset, Like a dozen circus freaks beating on drums, Like a barefooted, fire eating juggler, A sword swallower on a tight rope. A trapeze artist swinging in the breeze, A clown pursued by the devil, Climbing a mile high skyscraper. Entertainment everywhere. Don’t look now. A whirling dervish dancing in the wind, A faker climbing into the mouth of a serpent. How could anyone be so high?

The audience stands mouth agape, Staring wherever the spotlight shines, And, watching the wrong hand of the magician. The piper is on the march, Leading the children away, Into the realm of black eyed ravens and unreality.

To avoid the three ring circus, The sacred has gone underground, Awaiting resurrection, expecting insurrection, Biding time and playing the angel’s trumpet. Truth is disguised, confused and obscured. Covered up by the carnival music that keeps us spinning. Everyone out there thinks they’re winning. Playing games of glamour and gold. Eyes you should close and breath you should hold. It’s nothing but lies you are being told.

A visceral being, Desperate for connection, Seeking continuity, clarity and direction. I have not yet followed the birds, Cast aside instinct in favor of words, But, now I am fading and calling, Falling, Failing, Sailing, Into the ripe, setting sun, Knowing that nobody won.

June 24, 2018

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