The Laughter of the Panda

 

So much grace in that black and white fur,

so ingenuous that it recalled a fluffy toy,

for little children,

who are looking more for the soft loving care of the embrace

than the games of precariousness

which the mind jealously hides

in its dark crypts.

But that look of innocence

which men have managed

to crucify in grief,

to make it hateful

so that it should at last be forgotten

like a miasma which has defiled the veils of power,

shot an arrow of beauty

which wounded the performance of the self

and ruined the stage sets of deceit.

And the spectator was struck with light

by the sight of the soul

which shot like an arrow the heart’s sound

uniting the beings of the world in one

that the self was left in the debris of the theatre,

for the theatre was not life

but only a reading,

which, however, was cut off wretchedly

as the costumes of the performance danced empty,

because the actors were shut up

in the prison of hate.

                    *******

Then they rose up

those lost in the crowd of anonymity

who wished to honour the forgotten heart

which filled the void with lightning flashes of kindness

and knew that in a glance alone

all the drama of life

could be played out unexpectedly,

because this was not in search of flashes of greatness,

but of that hidden immensity

which love has hidden in the little things of the earth,

humbling the great.

Their gaze was united

with that look of innocence

which the arrow of life threw,

and they knew in their depths

that the sadness of this glance

was the knowledge of life

that the world was now alien to it,

because the meaning had been lost

and the outcasts were not able to withstand the darkness

in their fear,

their shame for the life which wandered pointlessly

on the outskirts of the world

and that desperation

which the unrelenting war of man

in the geopolitics of the species, the most ancient of all,

thrust into foreign land like a symbol of possession,

preparing new landscapes of extinction

against his own self,

which inanely boasted, hidden in the shadows,

about knowing the secrets

which the light injected into the whole world,

but whose brilliance it could not endure.

Because conceit never reflected

that meanings are free from

the errors and thoughts of the earth,

that they dwell in what we do

like birds which winged their way from celestial places

in order to build the future on these actions

which worthily lies in wait with gifts of fire in its hand,

which human acts have chiselled

on the fiery passing of time.

                    *******

The Panda is there,

in a world which has become a prison

within an even greater prison.

Time stands in that gaze

and innocently looks on the worlds within the world

passing involuntarily to new knowledge.

But grief swept over the look of innocence,

because beauty did not illumine this passage.

The flags of its world fly at half-mast

with the stains of vanity upon them,

but an unlooked-for light dimly illuminates the shadows:

a human caring, but powerless in time,

which looks for armies of life to make

the future, which implacably awaits, relent.

Vanity is shaken far and wide

like deception against the arrow of truth.

But it was not the end that would count,

but that inmost unity which was left

on the roads of greed,

but roused up again alive

in few hearts which cherished

the meanings deeply hidden in the Panda of the World,

a little friend of life, which is always innocent,

and pulled down the towers of words

for the sake of a new world,

in which the Panda will laugh

and joy will sweep away sadness.

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