About Articles Poetry Video Images Services Events
Edited Words: 152,263
Articles: 180
Poems: 52
Videos: 25
Images: 10

August 10, 2006

The Return of Rama

The doors, carved from the trunks of ancient trees grown slowly under ivy in damp, mossy, hidden places, swing slowly open. A ray of sunlight cuts into the dimly lit, limestone throne room, sending beams through the frankincense filled air. Along the sides of the room, in rows, staged upon wooden stalls, are people dressed in silk interwoven with golden thread.

Silhouetted against the deep-blue sky over an ocean in which a million ripples reflect the afternoon sun, he stands alone. Tall, muscular, wearing only ragged shorts, his body is lean, his presence palpable.

They begin to clap their hands; first one and then many. Shouts come from the crowd, whistles and cheers. He strolls slowly into the one-hundred-foot-high throne room, into the gloom where his face becomes visible; lean and strong, the jaw of a horse and eyes of a god.

Looking to one side, he begins to survey each of his beloved. Gazing momentarily but deeply into the eyes of each, he remembers their true nature. As his head pans, strong and erect on shoulders hewn by fingers clinging to sandstone rock, a light seems to fill the room, to illuminate everything in its path.

The people become silent as the effulgence washes over them. Rama walks to the front of the court, to a throne. He turns skillfully to his right and lowers himself onto a thin canvas cushion resting atop the nine-foot-square, one-foot-thick slab of black granite, his legs woven together and hands resting effortlessly in his lap.

Cloaked in a robe of contentment, his eyes gently open, and looking out benevolently upon these devoted ones, they meet with those of a beautiful young woman standing to his right and about twenty feet away. A subtle smile forms on her succulent lips and as her dark eyes begin to close with an overwhelming happiness, a tear rolls down her satin cheek and around her delicate chin.

Rama's lips part and words flow smoothly from them, deep mellifluous words, "I have been away for a long time. My heart aches to see you; I have missed you all so much. I have traveled for months on foot, eating leaves, and drinking from streams." He pauses, takes a deep, slow breath and continues, tears welling in his eyes, his voice straining against the love in his chest, "I bring good news: there are others like us, we are not the only ones. And the earth is surviving, as we knew it would."

Pools of colored light form on the expansive floor: red, yellow, blue, and many shades between; the sun's light filtered through bottle-glass blocks set high within thick, weathered oak frames ingrained with salt from a sea lapping at the prow of what was once a cliff.

A deep booming sound issues from above them. To Rama's left and fifty-feet up, the end of a long horn protrudes from a balcony in the wall. To his right, a man with shaved head and enbangled arms, sitting astride the barrel of a drum, begins to tap the rim of its two-foot-diameter face.

Rama is overcome by a broad smile as he looks out on his people dancing and singing. They have not forgotten his highest teaching: that above all else, life is fun.

"Duncan, the description of Rama seems just like you; I could see you clearly in this entire script. Thank you for being here (and being)." — Trish


Font: S M L
Receive by email:
Designed by Duncan Riach RSS Feed Icon   Site Map Copyright © 2006 Duncan Riach. All rights reserved.