August: My Cradle

August, seed of my breathe
Suitor of my tears and dust
Though grave gate in hunger awaits
You are beautiful than all
Rest my flesh when the breathe leaves
- (To August, DB)

August. Blessed month. Dry dust set to rest. In wet baptism. Leaves and birch too.The dry wets. Like the time in Bible's Ecclesiates. The time and season has the rain to lord. While tempest wind could stir no more. Like the firm faith after forty days fast.Swift monsoon winds chased rain pregnated clouds. The canvas-like sky turned muddy and heavy.Like the work of nervous brush. Sometimes with a sinner's haste. But a seasonal sign expected with clock-like certainity. While few mortals with scientific temper read with alarm. They say global warming. As the hole in the ozone layers depletes.The deterioration crossed the boundaries of season. As drought and flood threatened reason and conscience. Negating the cycle of expectations and reason. Sciene could no longer help the uncontrollable depletion. Faith prays but what if the time has come? But August, my gate to the brief mortality. The month that endowed me with the knowledge of the dew's brevity. And of the wisdom of vanity. The month that clothed me with flesh and blood. And with joy and fear. The month that breathe me with a life to thrive through age and wrinkles. The month that led me to sneak and seek meaning in the void of unquenchable life.

While mortal's expects a Hercules feat, life progressed to incline like ancient scimitar. And the kiss is a chance and not a choice. Lamentation and mourning awaits his glory. Though thousand wreaths may wait like white virgins. I and we are the victims of life. But the glory of creation. What more has man to uphold than the veil of vanity that breeds pride? Never knowing that we are mere sacrifice to vanity. The sons and daughters of unforgiven sin. As we enter with tears and leave no tears dry either. Like the inevitable cycle. August was chosen. Like the inescapable Jonah in the Bible. Or Judas. Chosen. A decision prior to the "concert of democracy." Prior to the mad Bush rush. But fortunate that it was not a mortal's chosen time. You, holier than them. Unscathed with the scars of politics and unforgivable rivalries. Untouched by the quest for power and dark glories. I choose your darkness hidden in rain packed floating clouds than in the sour of man's pride and falsity. I choose you than the pandering woman that submits to the temptation of the forbidden fruit. When will she fight temptation? The womb was a mistake, but I am blessed. For it was you, August. The only place for life to conceived. Men has no place for pride. For the mightiest is her son. And the meekest is hers too. And you housed them all. Like the life in the rain that you seasoned. It is not only in the womb. But in the cloud and dust too. August, month of life. Like the horn of plenty, your garner bulged bigger than December. The canon must be wrong. For the saviour must be your son too. How could the canon ignore your fertility? Where is his reason? Where is his conscience? Has the stolen rib gulped them all? But man, as surrogate sons and daughters of clogged propaganda and dim vision could not even blink to see that you were chosen before any being was created. Silver locks and golden age could wake him not. It wouldn't. The mystery and magic is in you. The beauty too. But before the grave, life's unbeaten suitor, attained its hungry glory, let her know that you, August, are my cradle.