The storm broke loose from the ribs of the mountain
Ageless, hooded in the mist of ancient prophesies;
From the darkness of its long and stony sleep
Burst forth the flaming one, offspring of the Sun.
Riding no mean beast ever mounted by man or god,
Fire and sword he would bring, and seed the whirlwind.
And in his wake, with swords turning in every direction,
The winged ones, the fiery ones
All the hosts of the upper, middle and lower worlds
Charging, cheering, clamouring.
All lay prostrate on the ground, the multitude,
As the storm swept over them,
As the shroud of the old covenant passed over them,
The light of light hidden from faithless eyes.
The seeing and blind, the whole and maimed,
The old who dreamt no dream,
The young who saw no vision,
Maidens weeping for the unborn.
All lay prostrate in fear and foreboding
As the promised one, the long-awaited one
Swept through the ages, sifting, ordering,
Breaking the pitcher at the fountain
And the wheel at the cistern,
Breaking the oil jars with the altar,
Shaking the temple to its foundation
Leaving not one stone upon another,
Sending the doves and the turtle doves
On their wings from gloomy halls of sacrifice,
And forever shattered the silence of the tomb
And the lonely vigil in the garden of olives.
All, all waiting for the end of all waiting,
Till green sprouted on that miserable stump
Standing yet, stark and naked among the skulls,
And the accursed fig tree gave of fruit one more time
For the meek and hungry on way to Bethany,
And the daughters of Zion rose
From generations of mourning
To cry Hosanna to the King.
John Koshy spends his superannuated life in Chennai, is an occasional writer, an occasional gardener and perpetually in love with life.