Friday, November 4, 2016

The Song of Love, by Manuela Popovici

 



In the Beginning there was the Song,
            the Song of Love singing:
Let there be a world to love
and be loved by,
to call me Beloved and
Beloved to call.

As it was then, so it is now:
the soul of the Earth
                        is a song of love.

Anima mundi, the soul of the world,
            is braided by women who sit at the core.

They sit in circles round fire stones,
they drum the heart and they braid the soul,
they sing the beginning and they sing the end
            of the Braid circle of Beloved love,
at the place where song is love is light is Song.

Gentle and fierce, women gather the threads:
            the willow sway and salmon flip,
                        the duck waddle and the lion glare,
            the soft word and sunset flare,
                        and courageous peonies,
each a song, a thread alight
with clean gratitude and love.
The women gather songs into the Braid
            that is the anima that is the Song
that unravels round the Earth –
            and the bear dreams of winter stars,
                        the loon serenades the gale,
            mountains offer deeper roots, and
                        hearts find motive for the dawn.

The hawk mother calls and calls
            from the tree across the vale
                        until the babe left in the nest
            bursts out and finds the air and wings
have not forgotten their old song.

The hawk remembers,
and so does the bear,
            and the mountain,
and the loon,
                        to return their songs and be braided once again
            into the one Braid of love
                        that is Beloved that is the soul.

There’s only Life inside the Braid, because
            in the Beginning there was the Song, and     
only and always, as then, so it is now:
            the soul is light is song of love.

The Earth Mother calls and calls
            from the tree outside your room,
                        through the drums inside each tune,
            from the feathers dropped in flight,
                        and the dance of dust in light,
The Earth Mother calls and calls
from the toddle of your babe,
                        through the braid across your back,
            from the fragrance of your tea
                        and the gliding on your bike,
Through the wind and through the breath,
            and the peach taste and the breast
                        and the walk and the night rest
            and the shy glance and the glint
                        and the skin and the slow blink,
The Earth Mother calls and calls.

The Earth Mother calls,
            the women lean in,
                        all waiting for you,
Beloved, to take a deep breath
            and release your song
                        and complete the Braid
            that animates the world.

That is the Love.

That is the Song.




* I dedicate and offer this poem to Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee, whose writings on spiritual ecology, anima mundi, and bringing the sacred back into creation have opened my heart to both the cry and the sacredness of the Earth. Thank you. This poem is also a prayer.

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