Obatalá

 

 

Clouds shine white around the mountain

where the king extends his hand.

The snow his whisk, the clouds his face.

In the cold air so thin from closeness to heaven

only compassion can sustain us,

only wisdom keeps us breathing,

only love can open our eyes to the view

and guide us back down to the surface.

Forgiveness reigns on the mountain

so that life arises below.

We will not scratch at the ground in anger

because we remember the mountain.

We will not raise our fists

because our father's hands brim with kindness,

with more kindness than any but his children could deserve.

Cool tears like dewy diamonds calm our hot faces.

The mountain embraces the sky and earth,

the king leans down to kiss our foreheads.

The king of white cloth has embraced us in coolness.

His coolness is the fingerprint of God.

We look up from our fear and hatred and forget them.

We look up at our father and smile.

 

Molder of arms and heads and planets,

gentle elephant,

humble as only the powerful can be,

our father and our mother, sparkling clear,

you who will love us when all else despise us,

you who will forgive and console and speak to us,

you are the tug in the heart

and the lump in the throat

as love falls like snow

from each of us, your little mountains

from which you rule the world.

 

© 2000 Gregor Everitt