The Fisher King — Pathways of the Sacred

I wait
Troubled by deadening pain
From that wound
Robbing all grace from life,
Making all I view cold, hard, barren.
I wait
While the throbbing, endless throbbing in the loins
Makes even the prospect of union a misery,
Causing rain to be held in the sky, holding green chutes beneath the surface of
the soil.
These many years I have waited
Unable to plow the land,
Despondent, desperate, despoiled, deadened -

I wait
The coming of the youth
Excellent, spontaneous
Driven by the daemon,
Who will span the waters
Ride over the bridge
Bear witness to the effulgence of the cup,
Grasp the holy vision
Contained by it and care.

So many
Have stumbled upon the vastness
But failed to ask the question
Enjoying a moment’s exhilaration, triumph
They assumed all knowing
Was merely observing, experiencing
Not the delicate exercise of caring,
Placing each and every being into the heart,
Practicing patience, compassion, and loving-kindness.

I wait
My own wisdom tempered, contained
By the joyless monotony
Of a routine I cannot break,
Until he comes – the Fool.