RIO DE LUZ (RIVER OF LIGHT)

 I am the ageless child,
the ceaseless infant
whose soul first swam in the Río de Luz,
whose spirit first sculpted
ephemeral statues in the sands
and played with the fluid-smoothed
stones of the shore,
of the River of Light
unspeakable ages before
history
and empires
ever sang
to the stark white peaks
we call the Andes.

I am the boy who forever floats and flies
in warm primal
weightlessness
as I start to feel
just the faintest,
most distant
and fleeting
inklings
of yearning to find
my nameless beloved,
to explore with me
in laughter
our bonding
oneness.
I swim in the Río de Luz,
and the River of Light
swims in me.

For what do I grasp?

I am the man
in all times,
all centuries,
all languages
who ponders
the innumerable glittering reflections
of the summer sun
on the rippling currents
and sees
for the first time
the white fire
on the subtle waves
and knows
flame burns hard on bodies of water,
the two are facets of the same essence,
and eternally ignite
in countless stars
within myself.

I am the seasoned traveler
who has drank of a
 great many
pristine rivers,
tasted their succulent fish,
and looked upon their waters’ sparkling flashes
in countless lands
on all
continents
and knows for certain
the gentle comfort
that
the Río de Luz,
the River of Light
is everywhere
in every nation,
every culture
healing,
giving strength
to anyone
who would have it,
accept it
and ask its unfathomable
questions.

I am the voyager
who looks out over the endless ocean
the pounding surf no rocks resist,
with pungent sea salt
filling the nostrils,
and beholds,
the Río de Luz's destiny,
the River of Light's completion,
its satisfaction
wherever its dance
finally brings it,
and its beginning
as its vapors rise up
to the storm clouds.
It can never be said
whether moonlit snow and ice
brightly twinkling
on Bolivian glacier heights,
driving forest rains,
billowing foam waves
or the Río de Luz,
the River of Light
came first;
they each gave birth to the others,
they are each other's child,
here's to their holy innocence,
and untainted purity,
all of them.

The pierce of the pan pipes,
the penetrating melodies,
the indescribable music
of that which is coming,
but which no mouth can speak,
evoke it all,
strangely connect it all,
every branch of the Río de Luz,
every fork of the River of Light
as if all such places
in every country
were right next door next to each other
and joined,
pulled together
by the strings of the Andean guitar,
linked as one
on some level,
beyond the familiar three dimensions,
our narrow sight
could never encompass.

The tunes ripping through my heart
call it out to me,
summon the Río de Luz,
the River of Light,
the tears welling up in me
for that which was lost,
and that which I know
somewhere,
some day
will be regained.
My eyes are rivers too.
Karumanta!
We have come far!
We must go out a much greater distance,
countless light years yet,
to find our hidden joy.

I am the searching one,
the deep thought
who at last
scans the vast sky
on crystalline nights,
perhaps through
the honorable telescopes
that now dot
the sacred South American ranges
or others we love,
and swims the Río de Luz,
the River of Light
one last time,
as its eddies and ebbs are found
yet again
in that sky filling luminescence
the more prosaic simply call
the Milky Way,
in assurance
that
when earth,
its seas,
rivers
and clear glass lakes
are long beyond
a distant
memory,
the River of Light will still run wild,
rage in freedom,
crashing and tumbling
in immense
violent pools
and colossal rapids
to what Great Waterfall,
what infinity,
escaping knowledge?

©COPYRIGHT 2004 by STEPHEN C. WETLESEN

STEPHEN C. WETLESEN, published poet and writer
10250 Mira Vista Rd., Cupertino, CA 95014 (408) 252-8655 email: [email protected]
Mr. Wetlesen is available for any reasonable request that might be imagined. Sending flowers? Why not send a poem with them? Need a unique gift? Have a special poem created. Every newborn child needs a birth poem.

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