Pygmalion Walks

Pygmalion walks.
He walks far and to stars
His eyes see many great things
And he walks to find these great things
In far off places were people say
Glorious treasures of man
Lie in hide and wait.

He walks through the green shrub of the jungles thick shroud, nature envelopes him in bloom all around. Pygmalion walks with knife in hand hacking the vine, the leaf, the lush life of the land. He is modern man, man of the new, lives a life a bit better, where travel is extensive in use; to the forest depth he comes with a change of pace in mind, to view fauna and uncivilized lands. Among trees of century’s he stands, with machete in his hand, the nature all around too rich for him and the thick blood of a civilized man. “The bugs, the pests, the smells, and all of these creatures about, it is a step into a strange city where nature has taken control. Indeed no place for a man of culture like me, the human condition has no use for so many trees.” He sees the life all around as a green bog, a tangled mess of spices trying to survive, no order or place and lacking any intelligent aesthetic trait. It is Darwin awry, a mess, a step behind, the world before the human creative mind. “No place for a man like me, a change of pace is all I need, sometimes my life seems so dull to me. The view here, pretty, the air very clean, perhaps some natural medicine is to be found for an ailing soul like me.” Along he walks beneath a coconut tree and spotted great brown nuts among its’ leaves. Having no hunger, or room in his bag he sought to taste the meat the nut had, he shakes them from the tree with a walking stick in hand, jarring loose the coconuts far before nature had planned. He cracks one with great effort and tastes how sweet, leaves it broken among the others that had fallen at his feet to rot in the soil in the jungles heat. On he walks through the unbroken land to see what else the forest had to offer.

Pygmalion walks through natures green
But the intricate net it weaves lay unseen
He sought to find but he does not seek
He takes what he wants
He takes what is there
Removes from the jungle a piece in place,
Taken for pleasure and left for waste

He walks up to a solemn temple made of intricate stones, aligned for the heavens made by people who prayed and died long ago. In bony ash upon hallow ground, in front of the temple and winding all around, a mosaic of time that lives from the past of people who had painted and had passed, a beautiful picture from ancient minds. Pygmalion step over it with a little glance seeing how the tile was broken and cracked, and how all the dirt was encrusted within. He thought with his little voice in his head, “this mosaic ought to be cleaned and saved, the marvel of modern restoration can keep this in perfect appearance and keep it that way. Away from this dirt that lies all around and protected from the jungle that wears it down, this mosaic is worth saving and worth taking from this god-forsaken place.” The stone steps lay in front of him intertwined with vines, a possession of the jungle for a great span of time. He walks up the many steps with boots on his feet, rushing to up to the top, to be at the peak. Pygmalion finds a large circle on top and nothing beside, no shrine or sculpture, nor scripture or sacred stones, just a worn circle in the bright of the sun. “What a thing to see, what people with such a strange sense of creativity; it is surely something to be seen, to be put on display, pondered over; a looking glass to what has been. A little glimpse of people who could not make it to today, instead there civilization crumbled at the seems, leaving worn piles of rock to be remembered by, nothing that spectacular in my eyes.” He had walked in a circle of sacrifice, of worship, and full-fledged heavenly delight. What meaning it held, what meaning it holds, is only remembered by the worn circle engraved in the temple’s stone. Having reached the top and seen what he seen, he left the higher ground, down the temple into the jungle, to continue his walk around parts he had never been. His eyes see the ancient story this temple holds but his mind refuses to let the story be told, and his leather clad boots trample on.

Pygmalion walks on sacred stone
But he does not know
He walks and sees
The people, the knowledge, the beauty it holds
It dazzles his eyes with a great glow
But it is seen alone
Nothing is to be learned from people who died long ago

He walks into a village were homely people make home, live simple lives and remember what has been known. Here he comes to find food and rest, his walk having been exhausting to be said nothing less. The villagers simple houses stand, ensemble together in a communal plan; together the people have lived, worked, and passed a strong tie like family; a village strong and banded. Pygmalion finds a small cantina to eat were the local dish is the only cuisine, made from people who live off the land making the food they had made with their passed knowledge and their worn hands. He sits and orders a meal from a lady who asks, the wife of the man whose family the cantina had always passed. “A quaint village I have come across here, why there is no technology any where near. I wonder how the people get by without all the amazing things being made in the world by fellow human minds.” He sees a change from his home, a change from what he knows; he sees it a bit queer, a bit brutish and definitely too rugged without the modern conventions he has come to uphold. Pygmalion knows what he likes and loves what he knows however limited the knowledge he holds. The dish came out on a sizzling plate made of colorful vegetables and brown roasted meat with a strange sauce drenching it deep, and he eats. “What unkind food! How can this be digestible so spicy, so salty, so crude! It will surely rot my stomach when I sleep, and the taste is certainly not good. What people live here, in such a place, in such a way, it is the third world what else can I say?” He paid his meal and left in whole on the plate, a sight the humble wife’s eyes had never laid, except from people who come from the other place, who come to see but never make amends, and make her feel hurt and lowly, how they don’t care to understand. He walks on out the village with a scoff on his breath, seeing the world that lies below the rest. Though having a hardy bond and an essence true, the people of the jungle fair no importance in his eyes; they are not with the new.

Pygmalion walks through village streets
But there are people there too
Who have lived this life for a long time
Who know many things that are wise and true
But he cares not
He does not see whom
He just sees what is there and what is not new

Pygmalion walks but he does not see
He does not understand he does not believe
The lives lived and the knowledge passed
Lay enshrined in people who hold the past
There is something to be warned about the new
How it cuts the vine, desecrates the temple, and dishonors good food
How it blinds the holder from what has passed
And infatuates him with that he has
Pygmalion walks and his leather boots trample the land
Pygmalion walks with a stick painted red at its end.