Waves of the Veld
A journey between our world of truth & myth
In the sacred mountains of the Dragons, where springs murmur secrets to the age stained rocks, life unfurls like a flowing stream's whisper crests rising in jubilation, troughs torturing by pain. Journeys of undulations, bodies etched with the tattoos of victory's kotinos and defeat's harsh branding iron, moaning under the burden of shackles unseen, rejoicing in the fleeting flame of an awakening dawn.
Pause by the babbling vein of the earth, its waters born in mist-shrouded heights, meandering through valleys scarred by time’s sand, where ancient Wild Fig trees stand sentinel, roots delving deep into the granite soil's memory. It twists and turns, a Leguaan of silver, soaking into the thirsty ground, vanishing like forgotten dreams, only to rise again.
Ah, but water knows no limit, part of an endless cycle, gathering in clouds where angels hover, veiled in vapor, bridging the chasm between flesh and fantasy, the seen world and the soul's wild imaginings. The heavens weep their bounty onto parched lands, pooling in hollows like tears in a lost lover's eyes. Then comes the sun, lazy at first, a leopard stalking then hunting, a martial eagle launching from shining copper lines, drawing the steam upward in spirals, back to the celestial loom where threads are rewoven.
So too our hearts: swells of joy that crest and break, valleys of sorrow that erode canyons in the spirit. Pain blooms like Leonurus in the drought, fierce and fleeting; happiness dances like Reedbuck on the hill slope grass. Win and loss entwine in this relentless rhythm, a cycle unbroken, from mountain to mist and back, reminding us: in the ebb and flow, we endure, Our breathing souls, resilient as the eternal stream.
~Roald Bartholomew
