London is a micro-cosmos of power. Every corner exudes power and everyone seeks it. Beyond the line of the city, power is the only reason to move under the light of sun. Above everything, above friendship or love, there is power. Power is the key, speaks and is spoken to. The whirlpool of power sucks mind and body altogether and demands something in return: total servitude. The system works neatly like a Swiss watch, but produces waste. Un-digested by-products of the machinery of power lay aside: people who did not get enough momentum to swirl around; or never wanted; or never could; or never knew how. Time is unmerciful on them.
Oh, bless, bless be the Lord who built His Church on the stone disposed of by the mason! If I ever am to understand the meaning of the term "waste", it must be now. I can see them around us, like ghost of sad spirits in the limbo, unnoticed and forgotten. They are men and women without achievements, who strive daily against their own self and are at the service of their own ruthless minds. They pull their lives purposelessly beyond their prime. I can see them with my eyes of flesh _solitary men, sat next to a pint at the bar, men carrying bags and shuffling their feet in the tube. Unappealing and ungraceful. Their good hearts buried on tangles of dead leaves. You could become one of them. You are not better than they were _perhaps, not better than who they still are.
In the middle of the hot and stifling desert, I feel the words of the Christ quieting my spirit: "I will built my Church on discarded stone", he says. And I imagine a castle of sandstone; its walls and chambers devoid of power, brimming with detachment and generosity. The spiral of power, broken down in pieces, scattered and lost. There is no much need for understanding: the pain of this world is cast in precious prayer. After all breathlessness and embarrassment I can see people awaken on the terrace at the sunset. They all look further west. The sky is water-colored in horizons of multiple red, and the breeze finally shows up. They feel its gentle touch in their temples, foreheads and sprinkling torsos... Come unto Him all of you! _ barren pieces of dust, who are tired and through and utterly fed up; "brushed and battered"; wasted and squandered; all of you who matured without blossoming: beyond the Red Sea, it is tomorrow.
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Oh, bless, bless be the Lord who built His Church on the stone disposed of by the mason! If I ever am to understand the meaning of the term "waste", it must be now. I can see them around us, like ghost of sad spirits in the limbo, unnoticed and forgotten. They are men and women without achievements, who strive daily against their own self and are at the service of their own ruthless minds. They pull their lives purposelessly beyond their prime. I can see them with my eyes of flesh _solitary men, sat next to a pint at the bar, men carrying bags and shuffling their feet in the tube. Unappealing and ungraceful. Their good hearts buried on tangles of dead leaves. You could become one of them. You are not better than they were _perhaps, not better than who they still are.
In the middle of the hot and stifling desert, I feel the words of the Christ quieting my spirit: "I will built my Church on discarded stone", he says. And I imagine a castle of sandstone; its walls and chambers devoid of power, brimming with detachment and generosity. The spiral of power, broken down in pieces, scattered and lost. There is no much need for understanding: the pain of this world is cast in precious prayer. After all breathlessness and embarrassment I can see people awaken on the terrace at the sunset. They all look further west. The sky is water-colored in horizons of multiple red, and the breeze finally shows up. They feel its gentle touch in their temples, foreheads and sprinkling torsos... Come unto Him all of you! _ barren pieces of dust, who are tired and through and utterly fed up; "brushed and battered"; wasted and squandered; all of you who matured without blossoming: beyond the Red Sea, it is tomorrow.
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
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