Wednesday, 4 December 2013



On chequered squares of space and time,
Dark shadows dance their game of mime;
To slay the Self is their cryptic aim;
By sleights of mind, to heights they climb.

There sits their Chief, Black’s his name,
A proud ego is his claim to fame,
A cosmic game he’s forced to play,
Helped by his dark deluding dame.

False bishops at his feet do pray,
Marauding knights have feet of clay,
A pride of puppet pawns at rest,
His army’s poised in gaunt array.

The Lord of Light is truly blest,
The White Goddess for his Queen, no less:
With castled Sages on each side,
He waits to joust this celestial jest.

His soldiers, stately stallions ride,
Maintaining righteous order wide.
In silence, pawns withdraw and meditate,
Freed from the dream of seek and hide.

That Self wants Ego checked to mate,
The rascal fights to thwart his fate,
And kill his foe himself instead:
We’ll watch a battle taught and great.

By laws of Nature the rules are led,
The end’s perceived, pure consciousness ahead.
To wage this war in awesome glory
‘Till Black resigns; thank God, he’s dead.

After ages, growing grey and hoary,
Both lie boxed, the game was gory.
When ‘WHO’ created this sport is ready,
A new game begins again; another story!

  Alan Jacobs

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