The Eighth Picture

Nothing is left now, nothing remembered.  The search, the capture, the struggle, the peace, the ox's back, the sleep and the dream, even the ox itself: all are forgotten.  Only the oxherd remains, only the self that sees, and now it vanishes too.  There is only a breathing. 

The breathing speaks: "Let there be light!"
 
And, suddenly, there is light.
 
The breathing speaks again.

          Somewhere,
          a pen goes to paper,
          a brush to canvas,
          a chisel to stone,
          a voice to the wind.

          Somewhere too,
          a question is posed,
          a commandment given,
          a cornerstone laid,
          a telescope launched,
          a blessing offered.
 
An oxherd (he could be anyone) gives birth to an Idea.  Flesh becomes spirit.


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