A Christian, philosophical point of view and a few free ebooks
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Poems from long ago
written in the past
where the future wasn’t ever
and time would not yet last
Being is becoming
and never not yet when
walking on dark trails with shadows
echoes came to pass
Silence was a river
of forever always flowing
with each brief portrait of creation
the Almighty always knowing
Within that hall of mirrors
galaxies lonely seeming
give moments to softly think about
why it has some meaning.
Thank you for this poem.
It resonates in an amazing way with the beginning of my book Confessions of an Immortal.
Sometimes lines written by another person strike exactly the same silence from which my own thoughts are born.
And in such moments, it becomes clear: we all overlap a little—in our feelings, in our questions, in that inner emptiness from which words grow.
Your lines seem to echo in the memory of my hero, in his strange journey through time and loneliness.
And I thank you for this response—subtle, unexpected, alive.
———————
“Confession of the Immortal”
Zohar Leo Palffy de Erdöd
From the Author:
And so it was that I was first.
Not born, but existing from the beginning, when there was no dawn, no dusk, no name for existence.
I was in that Hour that knows no number,
and saw how Nothingness trembled, and out of its silence arose Light.
And this light tore apart the depths, and stars, like sparks, blazed in the abyss.
And matter, like a baby in the cradle of eternity, took its first, tremulous breath.
I was there, and I have no memory of “before” and “after,” for everything was in Me,
and I was in everything.
I saw an ancient stone that absorbed the heat of a thousand suns
and kept the traces of peoples whose names are scattered like dust in the wind.
In it, in its cracks, slept the memory of footsteps and breath, of songs and moans,
of greatness and fall.
I was in caves where darkness was mother and fear was father,
and I saw how fire, raised in the center of the circle, became the god of the tribe.
And the shadows dancing on the walls were the first prophecies,
and the faces bent toward the flame saw in it not warmth, but the face of the Unknown.
And I knew that a day would come
when the sons of those who trembled by the fire
would raise towers piercing the clouds,
and would capture lightning in copper and words in parchment,
and would harness the winds like horses,
and would bring fire down from the heavens to turn cities to ashes.
I witnessed the birth of the Law,
not written in ink, but carved in the very core of thought.
And I saw chaos retreat before order,
and a thin thread holding the world together.
I listened to the eternal debate:
some said, “The soul is vapor that melts in the cold of death,”
while others said, “It is a spark of Eternal Truth,
unknown to decay and death, capable of rising above the flesh.”
And I saw how the seeds of thought fell into hearts:
some bore the fruit of healing, raising kingdoms and performing miracles of the spirit;
others bore the fruit of destruction, plunging cities and kingdoms into the abyss,
so that only legends and dust remained of them.
I am the Chronicler—the silent guardian of the chronicle,
in which the beginning and the end are not separated, but woven into a single breath.
I am a shadow moving across the fabric of centuries,
and in every moment I feel the tremor of the pulse of the universe.
This is my confession — a thread woven from destinies,
where every cry and every whisper is a stone in the temple of Eternity.
For my history is your history,
and in every spark of your consciousness echoes the ancient ages,
their glory and their downfall, their insight and their delusion.
And perhaps in this cycle,
in this endless dance of being and non-being,
you will see that Meaning
which is hidden from the eye but open to the heart,
attentive to the silent but powerful whisper of Eternity,
which was before all things and will remain forever and ever.
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