The moonflower

“Fleure de lune”, by Chantal Peguiron, which partly inspired my poem, The moonflower

I want to create

I want to create

I want to create

On the beats of a crazy melody

On the rhythm of a warring song

I want sentences to dance in my head

A storm of words and colors

Which takes a cathedral-like form

A place where to step in and get lost

In an immensity of pillars and stones

A stone so finely chiseled

It takes a life of its own

There’s just enough light

To highlight the dancing shadows

Along the curving walls, above the streaming waters

For there’s water running along the vaulted galleries

There’s water dripping from the ceilings

The silence inside is a silence of water on water

Of water on stone

A silence for the eyes, for the ears

For the hands and the feet

It’s cold, but not unbearably cold

Just enough to feel carried to another time, another place

The wanderer gets lost in the maze of tunnels

They seem to go deeper and deeper in the soil

But it is hard to keep track of the slopes and the directions, hard to know

Whether they are circling around themselves like a snake or a snail shell

Intent on going ever deeper in their pit

Or if they are stretching and stretching like the tentacle roots of a tree

He has no other choice but walking on the cold damp floor

His feet bathing in the little stream, his hand caressing the walls of the gallery when it narrows

Admiring and flattering the smoothness of the stone

Was it dug by craft, or is it a natural formation carved down by water

He is left to wonder

He walks on and on

He is alone, alone

But the magic of the place makes him forget his loneliness

He feels like a child again, exploring something still undiscovered

Everything becomes possible in this place, imagination and reality blending together as if after all they made only one, only a single word divided in two halves

He reaches a larger and straighter space that stretches and stretches without end to the front

The ceiling becomes higher and higher, the water deeper, bathing his knees

The soil underneath is smooth, almost mellow, a pleasure for the feet to walk on

And a slight warm breeze rises, contrasting marvelously with the coldness of the water

The breeze becomes sharper as he goes forward still, blowing in his ears, giving a life to his hair

The water is not anymore the only master of sounds and silences

For the dripping and the gurgling has been complemented with a steady, insistent whistling

As if there were high hidden windows in the ceiling that let the breeze in

The light changes too, from a warm yellow to a silvery white

From where does the light comes is another question that remains unanswered

From the stone around, from the water itself, or from the wanderer’s eyes

Perhaps someone else in his place would see a totally different landscape

Or perhaps not

Our wanderer accepts to leave all these questions unanswered

For he is too eager to go on, to discover some fragments of all the secrets this place hides

As he goes on and on in the straight space, the walls of the gallery become more and more distant and banks appear along the river

He can now walk on the banks his feet dry letting the silvery stream carry on without him

He first hesitates to step out of the water, as used as his legs have gotten to the cold liquid that surrounded them perfectly, that embalmed them as if it was healing

But this place makes him dauntless and the dry banks promise just another kind of massage to his feet

Indeed, the stone is smooth and light to the touch, as if it was carpeted by a tiny yet invisible layer of the mellowest grass

And then, the stream starts enlarging, it becomes a proper river, wider and wider and deeper and wider still

It sparkles with thousands of tiny silvery gems

As it gets deeper and wider, its surface becomes more and more motionless, mirror like

And it only quivers slightly with the warm breeze that has become unsteady, silenced for long moments before to launch itself in a fierce surge

It’s as if the water didn’t follow the blows of the wind but obeyed its own whims, its own dance, its own melody

A very sweet and peaceful and quiet one, contrasting with the sharpness of the air above

Our wandered observes, fascinated, the silvery surface of the river that is becoming a lake

He feels on his skin the wind outbursts and wonders what the wind is trying to snatch away

And before he realizes, he has stepped onto a proper carpet of grass

The grass is of a silvery green mixed with very light tints of blue and yellow and purple

It grows in tufts and is heavenly mellow to the touch, almost cotton or cloud like

After the coldness of the water and the bareness of the banks, they are exactly what was needed to relax the feet of the traveler

He walks on and on as the lake surface sparkles of thousands of little gems that become more and more vivid as if it reflected a starry sky, as if it were covered with tiny stars or moon dust

But there’s no mistake to where the light comes from as the ceiling above is vaulted, albeit very high and with details impossible to catch with the eye

As he goes forward still he perceives a little island in the middle of the lake that shines as though it were a pregnant moon just risen from behind the mountains

It is dazzling with a white light that seems unearthly and almost too pure to be true

Now, our wanderer has eyes for nothing else but his moon island

The galleries, the vaulting, the banks, the grass, the lake surface are all forgotten, all thrown in the background of his imagination

He walks to the place on the dry banks that seems the closest to the moon island and after a moment of hesitation he stops

He stops and sits there, on the small cliff, his feet bathing again in the cold water that seems milder than he remembered

He sits and observes the moon island

It’s so dazzling with light that he cannot make out the details

He rests and lets his eyes observe the light as if they were night butterflies dragged toward a flame and thinks of nothing in particular but the beauty of this moon he has found underground

And suddenly, lo! there is a small barge that appears, silently, motionless, right under the cliff where he sits

Without thinking twice, he jumps on the barge and it starts gliding effortlessly along the sparkling surface of the lake that has been outshone by the moon island

As the barge rows forward our wanderer is surprised to see that the moon island does not seem to grow closer

And suddenly, he is gripped by the darkest of fears

A wrenching fear that freezes his heart, knots his throat, paralyzes his limbs

I will never reach the moon island, never reach it, he shivers, it all was an illusion, a trap

And as if to right him the landscape around him entirely changes

He is no longer on the mirror like surface of a peaceful lake

But thrown in dark narrow mazes with just enough light to see stalactites and stalagmites all around him and the barge on which he still is launched helplessly

But these are not natural rock formations

They are wild animals and monsters and hideous faces that seem to have sprouted from the stone

He is launched on this downward river at an incredible speed and water splashes him and gusts of wind surround him, wrap him in this deadly trap

His mind stalls before this fall and he wants to shout all his vertigo to the world but his throat cannot make any sound and he feels as though he were suffocating

His limbs and his heart and his stomach have lost all notion of where is the up and where is the down in this crazy fall where monstrous creatures pass him by an inch or two with the certainty that his barge will crash into one and he feels a surge of nausea that remains trapped in him too

Why, why, why did I came here? he wonders on the beat of his nausea and his vertigo

Why, why, why? Oh please, please, make it stop, make it stop, stop, enough, please, please!

But the crazy fall continues and he feels his mind and his body bursting with an insupportable suffering

Why, why, why was I born? Why, why, why did I believe in truth and light when it all were an illusion?

But no one replies to his incriminations and the fall continues and continues and continues

And the time passes and flows until he is too tired, too exhausted to stay awake

And he becomes as a lifeless leaf that falls from a tree and is blown in a storming wind

But sleep does not bring rest nor oblivion as he is constantly on the edge of wakefulness, on the edge of his fear, and at every moment his vertigo threatens to blow apart his mind, and his nausea clenches at his stomach and his heart

The shadows of stones around him have become dark nightmares that his imagination makes even more alive and real

It all is a nightmare, an awful nightmare, and his heart shouts for mercy, mercy, mercy

But no one listens and the fall continues and he imagines he already is in hell and that this is only a small trial of what he will have to suffer for all infinity

But now our wanderer does not care anymore about life and heaven and hell and he only prays for the oblivion and the rest of death

Death, death, death, he shouts, screams, silently, between one nightmare and another, to the howling wind and the horrible stones around

Mercy, death

His throat is dry, so dry, his chest and his stomach about to explode, but nothing changes still

Until, suddenly, he understands

He doesn’t know what he understood, but he feels quieter, much quieter

Perhaps it is the wings of death taking him away from this nightmare

No, this is not death

He understands that he is still falling, but he is not afraid anymore

He’s not afraid anymore because he has nothing to lose, he has accepted death, demanded it even

And now he falls asleep, of a sleep without dreams, of a sleep that repairs and rests

But he is too deeply in his sleep to know that even

And when he wakes up he still is on his barge

Back on the twinkling lake of silver and at almost an arm’s length of what he had called the moon island

But now instead of staring at the island he observes the lake around him and appreciates all its peaceful beauty

He confronts its light no longer to the moon, but instead drinks in its quietness and he feels an appeasing warmth flowing into all his limbs

He breathes deeply the cool damp air that hangs motionless

He plunges his hands in the water and breathes and breathes

Slowly, quietly, the barge brings him to the shores of the moon island

It is made of a shining stone that he immediately recognizes as the legendary moonstone

The island is a small hill surrounded by the waters of the lake

He slowly climbs unto it, appreciating the texture and the mellowness of the moonstone that seems not cold nor warm, at the exact temperature of his feet

Little traces are left in the moonstone as he walks, as if he were walking on sand or snow

But these traces are short lived as if invisible waves soon came to clear them away

And as he goes forward toward the summit of the hill, our wanderer that is not anymore a wanderer starts feeling a liquid warmth flowing through all his limbs, from his heart to his mind, as if the light of the moonstone propagated through him too

This moonlight inside of him makes him lighter, even lighter, and he starts feeling as careless and joyful as if he still were an eight year old child who had nothing to worry about but play and imagine

And he finally reaches the top of the hill without even noticing since every instant of the climb was an adventure

And for a moment he stops there and observes the sparkling lake around that seems almost dark, a night starry sky outshone by a full moon, but is still beautiful

And he observes the grasslands arounds and the invisible walls and ceilings of the galleries that limit his world without limiting it as they have become invisible, dark as in a moonless night

And he enjoys this newly found freedom, breathing and breathing and rejoicing at the fairness of life

His heart swollen with love for everything around, for himself and the world at large he adventures toward the center of the conic hill that is a little bit lower

He goes down a few steps along the moonstone slopes

And suddenly, he sees her

He sees the moonflower, the tiny moonflower

A flower so white and so fair he could not even imagine

Its whiteness contrasts with the silvery of the moonstone between which it grows

It’s a tiny green plant that grows between little cracks of the moonstone slope

There are many plants that are barely visible, many closed burgeoning flowers

And only one moonflower open on all the hill

He walks toward her, his heart trembling, quivering, with a joy he could never have imagined feeling

My childhood dream, it was true, it was all true

He crouches in front of the tiny white flower

And closing his eyes he breathes its heavenly scent

He breathes and breathes and breathes

He reopens his eyes and the whiteness of the flower strikes him even more

He looks at it and suddenly he can see it all again

This dream he had entirely forgotten

This dream that had filled his heart with the joy of promises in times of yore

This dream he had barely dared believing and he had forgotten with the hardships of life

This dream was still alive, it had lived all his life hidden in the deepest depth of his heart

And now it was here, in front of him, in the moonflower

About Erik Vincenti Zakhia

Dear all, I will share with you many of my poems, short stories, drawings and paintings telling of my journey of self-discovery and my reflections about life, love, art, spirituality, sexuality, kundalini rise, and twin flames. They all fall within the realm of Hazen. May you have an inspiring visit!


  1. Pingback: Reuniting with my twin flame – Rediscovering Painting | Erik Vincenti Zakhia

  2. tu es très drôle d’avoir utiliser ce dessin!


  3. Poème magnifique!
    Je suis en train de le lire à ma maman! J’en aimerai encore!!


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