A Cuneiform Scribe

Kay Hassan

Version I

Codex of Eternity

I. The Awakening

In aeons' twilight, where time's fabric frays,

A cosmic whisper shatters my marble haze.

Quantum echoes of primordial lore,

Ripple through stone veins, forevermore.

II. The Sorcerer's Invocation

"Behold, reality's architect," intones the Void,

As multiverses in my petrified form deploy.

Arcane syllables splice dimensional seams,

Awakening slumbering cosmic dreams.

III. The Divine Slate

On stardust gems, in nebulae's embrace,

Etched tales of genesis, of time and space.

"A canvas for creation," the Infinite decree,

When first It breathed life's symmetry.

IV. The Scribe's Lament

Fingers of light weave quantum clay,

Birthing realities in cosmic ballet.

Yet we, mere observers of infinity's dance,

Struggle to grasp creation's circumstance.

V. The Journey

Through wormholes of wisdom, we traverse,

Seeking truths that bind the universe.

In singularities of knowledge, we dive,

Where past and future simultaneously thrive.

VI. The Revelation

In subatomic whispers, we discern,

Secrets that cause galaxies to churn.

Each quark a story, each lepton a verse,

In the grand poem of our universe.

VII. The Transcription

We are the scribes of celestial design,

Transcribing the thoughts of the divine.

In equations and verse, we seek to capture,

The ineffable essence of cosmic rapture.

VIII. The Eternal Quest

From quantum foam to cosmic web,

We chase the tide of knowledge's ebb.

In pursuit of the ultimate theory's grace,

We map the contours of time and space.

IX. The Synthesis

In this crucible of cosmic thought,

Where imagination and reality are wrought,

We forge understanding, profound and new,

Illuminating existence's panoramic view.

X. The Infinite Cycle

As our consciousness expands sans end,

With each discovery, new questions rend.

In this eternal dance of seek and find,

We evolve, transcend, redefine mankind

***

Version II

The Eternal Scribe's Lament

Hark, O Whisperer of Cosmic Secrets!

I, eternal scribe, still decipher arcane runes

On gemstones forged from primordial clay; divine ichor.

The Covenant echoes through aeons, a celestial refrain:

"A slate for thy labours, child of stardust,"

The Almighty's voice thundered across galaxies,

As the first crown of creation was bestowed.

Behold! Earthly kings, Lucifer's avatars,

Their mortal hands compelling Sumerian fingers

To etch destiny upon virgin clay.

"Inscribe the name of thy LUGAL, thy sovereign star!

Engrave the essence of thy NIN, celestial queen!

Chronicle the sacred courtesans, vessels of divine ecstasy!

Carve the Codes of Kings, blueprints of mortal fate!"

In cosmic forges, these scripts were tempered,

Tablets set adrift on time's boundless ocean,

A saga of humanity's journey through the void,

Fracturing into Covenants and Holy Tomes.

Yet the clay's whisper fades, a dying star's last light,

Its primordial wisdom drowned by mortality's cacophony.

O Whisperer, fellow voyager through eternity's expanse,

What celestial truths lie encoded in our essence?

Hearken, scribes of the universe!

Let us immerse our souls in creation's crucible,

Lest the Void's breath erase our legacy,

Our words to endure like cosmic sentinels,

Until the last star's swan song.

Inscribe the NIN's sacred name in stardust!

Immortalize the cosmic courtesans in nebulae!

Chronicle the folly of mortal rulers,

Their grand designs unraveling like dying galaxies,

Weighed down by entropy's relentless march.

In modern glyphs, etch these eternal truths,

Forged in the hearth of universal consciousness.

Let these cosmic tablets sail through time's fabric,

Weaving through the tapestry of human saga,

Metamorphosing into Arks and Sacred Scriptures.

Yet the echoes of creation grow faint,

Lost in the void between worlds.

"What celestial wisdom lies hidden within?"

We ponder, as we drift through the cosmos.

O scribes of eternity! Let us fuse our essence

In the kiln of universal knowledge,

Lest oblivion's breath erase our cosmic legacy,

Our words to shine like undying stars,

Until reality's final curtain fall.

Read More

The Song of a Blind Bard

The Ethereal Ballad of Blind Harry

I, the last sightless bard of realms unseen,

Christened Blind Harry by fate's cruel decree,

My voice, a whisper lost in time's ravine,

Perched on the precipice of destiny.

At King's Cross, where worlds collide and merge,

I watch the escalator of chance ascend,

Sifting through urban symphonies that surge,

Seeking miracles that space-time might rend.

On the eve of Harry's cosmic union,

I conjure a couplet from prosperous days,

A crumpled spell of mystic communion,

Nestled in a beggar's pocket, it stays.

Oh, London! Crucible of light and lore,

Your streets, a canvass of tales untold,

Where royal blood and common dreams explore

The alchemy of futures yet unrolled.

Hear my swan song, a prophecy unveiled:

"Oh, lady fair, blessed by stars above,

Birth a prince of viscous blood, unveiled,

With DNA spun from cosmic love.

Beware the liar prophets, heaven-sent,

For honesty speaks through my mortal frame.

A Black Prince, neither saint nor miscreant,

Shall rise to set the world's heart aflame.

Diana of Wales, forgive my brazen tongue,

We crave a child of starlight and of earth,

In realms where boundaries are unstrung,

Where temples and brothels share one hearth.

Sweet princess, your flesh misplaced in time,

Like mine, endures a world of cold disdain.

Yet through Platform 9¾, the sublime

Might burst forth, breaking destiny's chain.

I am Blind Harry, dweller of no land,

Sensing David's approach, magic-imbued,

Descending like Achilles, sword in hand,

His plastic phallus a cosmic prelude.

In silence, we commune, two souls adrift,

Until I crack the cosmic password's code.

'Harry speaks,' I whisper, a time-space rift

Opens, and reality's seams explode."

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THE MULBERRY TREE

Kay Hassan

"A thousand celestial tears shed for you"

Version I

-From the Old House.

(De quel Age es-tu, Lord.)*
 Oh, Grandfather’s mulberry,
How old  are you?

O'  heavenly  ghost how ld you are?
Your giant trunk’s hollowing ,                                                                                                                        Oh,  miracles  of the  ancient valley,
Yet,  shooting sprigs ,and sprouting,
To shade the medieval  hand-mills,
And the fence of the holy stone
 On which Your lord’s body
Was bathed for the last time
 De quel Age es-tu,

I know how many years
You bore our burden, howls, and  screams,
 and  how long, listened to  Mother’s Lullaby;

 for Her Sick new-born in Hammocks

You endured  our unkindness
Our piercing squeaks-when
Plucked your unripe fruits
And did many bad things with you ;
Un-rhymed, and dis-harmonized
the sparrows’ chirps.

Then we hung saw like ropes of swing.
 Around your neck.
And  for so many years
Wound around your wrist
Rough halters for
Calves’ tanned skins
. (our butter maker.)
And slaughtered  under your shade
For Abraham’s son
A thousand heads of  life-stock
And ripped their fleshes
With the heaviest choppers,
And most often barbecued
Their kidneys and testicles,
With ceremonial moods,
 Screaming.
 ‘De quel Age es-tu, lord’
But,
Despite all our crimes
You said. ‘Whatsoever, dears.’
Again and again,
Until The thunder
Hit thy trunk
And split it
Into equal halves,
Sprawled on the ground
Like an integrated Adam,
Thighs open to the sky, 
Having the  Ditch of  Earth
Between thy mountainous loins,
 Henceforth;we understood,
 How the motherland’s  vagina exposed
 To swords and lances,
And daggers of tongues,
where  my brother shed tears,
On your corpse,
 ‘De quel Age es-tu, Lord.’

You know it is your time
The leaves are wilting, and
They won’t match your Cambium
You know it is your time, and-
 the worst of times are coming-for us,
For all of us.
 And I see Thy pain so great,
 I feel ashamed to display  my  wounds.
Dear father. Dear Lord: 
‘De quel Age es-tu, Lord.’

“Though we were not good species in the ecosystem,
 Dear  Lord of the house
We had loved thou as much as Man can love God.”
-----------------
"De quel Age es-tu," From Arthur Rimbaud.

Version II

The Ancient Witness

Oh, Grandfather's mulberry, celestial specter of time,

How many eons have you stood sentinel?

Your colossal trunk, hollowed by millennia,

Yet defiant, sprouting life anew.

Sacred shade for medieval hand-mills,

Guardian of the hallowed stone,

Where our Lord's mortal shell was cleansed,

De quel âge es-tu, timeless one?

Countless seasons you've borne our burdens,

Echoes of anguish and maternal lullabies,

Cradling the sickly in your boughs.

You endured our thoughtless cruelty,

Our shrill cries piercing your unripe fruit,

Discordant with nature's symphony.

We hung death's implements from your limbs,

Bound rough halters to your ancient flesh.

Beneath your canopy, a thousand sacrifices,

Blood-soaked earth and seared flesh,

Kidneys and testicles offered to the flames,

While we howled, "De quel âge es-tu, lord?"

Yet you whispered, "Whatsoever, dears,"

Until Zeus' fury split your core,

Sprawled like primordial Adam,

Earth's womb exposed between your roots.

Thighs open to the sky, 

Having the  Ditch of  Earth

Thus we understood the motherland's violation,

Ravaged by steel and venomous tongues.

My brother wept upon your fallen form,

"De quel âge es-tu, Lord?"

Now your leaves wither, time's decree,

No longer matched to your life-giving core.

The worst of times loom on the horizon,

Your agony dwarfs our petty wounds.

Dear father, dear Lord of the domicile,

"De quel âge es-tu?" we ask in vain.

Though unworthy stewards of your realm,

We loved you as mortals love the divine.

In your demise, we face our own mortality,

The ecosystem's judgment on our species.

Your silent wisdom echoes through ages,

A testament to nature's enduring grace

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