P Sufenas Virius Lupus
What is the power of silence,
the unanswered question,
the unspoken syllable?
I do not know, but I know one who does.
He has been born innumerable times,
of Re, of Sobek, of Osiris, of Serapis, of himself,
of a hundred Pharaohs in Egypt,
of a million uncounted sunrises each dawn.
Gracious child of his horned mother,
he plays his music without a word,
his sidelock hangs, swaying
while his unclad body sings potential.
He has died as often as his birth,
he has passed through unseen regions
where sun falters in fear,
where dragons dream and swallow and scare.
He has seen the essence of mystery itself.
He could tell it all in a word or a note,
but he does not, he hushes himself.
Childish shyness, humility, holy awe,
or a game made more enticing
because he refuses to taunt
“I’m no-ot tell-ing…”?