how Solomon was sealed

once, upon the twilight of an age when daylight and delight were long in lasting, and [r]age was rare, and songs were of substance solid enough to softly break our nightly fasting, there was born a boy who bent as freely as the reeds, and often went to wander in the forest, seeking seeds. there in the realm of the elm and the elder grew this groundling, gainingrace, and all who met him eyes awide would see a wa[l]king wisdom in his face. so seeing, some would hide, or hem, or hope, or harden–depending, each, on what they’d sown in their own groves or gardens.

(that age was not our own–remind yourself, or find this next part hard to trust:) his people pondered, and decided anyone so flexible must be the one they asked to judge the guilty and the just. and so he took to the service of scales, weighing out contestantales, telling fool from wise and teasing out the truths between the lies. and for a time, it was good; for a time, he had the vantage well in view that there was, in the realm of men, no single false or true in matters of tactics and tatters of fact, that any judgment must, of course, be something of a balanced act. he set his seal down daily on a dozen disputedecisions, voicing re[a]sonant restraint and giving plaintiffs plain[e|r|e]visions. some said he could have halved an infant and settled both sides’ cries, but as the years wore on he found the fire faded from his eyes.

for he was born in the twilight of that age, and it went down to dusk and passed to night. people became harder, more beholden to black or more wistful for white–and neither one was wiser than the other. so seeing went the solemn man; turned back to his brothers of boyhood, leaf and root. in forest shade he for[a]ged for himself a simpler suit. with all his strength he stretched to turn his imprint on himself; he pressed it in, and with a mon(omani|a|sti)c mass it settled in his skin, and with a sting and with a sigh he sank beneath the singing sky to find some rest there, secret in the soil.

but nothing in the ground resists the springtime rise and roil, the beckoning to bleed the brea[d]th of birth. though thick and gnarled beneath the earth, the stalk so surfaced stood up slim and slender–so goes the curve of a karmicontender, the arc of a liminalife; bellflowers blooming on a bending stem, ringing radiant one by one, and dropping in their order down again.

in this synovial symphony, this jointed, justified symmetry, are balanced lone and sympathetic sounds–by this, we see how every solo monad mounts twin blossoms in the bursting of its bounds.

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