by Georgia Woods
The green glass of the desert recalls times lost to time. Within the shifting
patterned dunes, the nocturnal nomad occasionally finds the desert jade. This
jade, a bright spring green, tells of times even more ancient than that of the
green glass. Older even than these bright things are the velvety green and yellow
flecked eyes of the Immortal Assassin.
The ages pass over him again and again and yet he sleeps in righteous peace. Tribal
peoples kill each other in horrific ways over his bed but he is not disturbed.
Civilizations rise and crumble adding more substance to the ever moving, never still,
Sometimes, during a new moon, lost in the desert; without water; a young man, prostrate,
will surrender to God. The Immortal Assassin may, at a time like this, stir. But
the time is not yet and he slumbers on.
The day of awakening: it is late afternoon. The sun beats at the closed blinds.
A man with dark hair and dark beard, dressed in white, lies in a white bed. On a chair
along the wall sits a nurse all in white with a white scarf nearly covering her face.
He is dying; prepared to die; wishing for death.
This man is not old, not young, not ill, not infirm. He has been tortured and added
to these tortures, still another torture: he is water-boarded. This near death
experience forced upon him time after time was done in order to facilitate possession
of his soul. He resisted and no evil possessed him but now, a good man, broken in
spirit, wanted death.
His spirit rose and filled the room. A call went out for a gathering by his side. We
responded and were immediately there. His spirit, of swirling velvety green and purple
hues, was beautiful to behold. We spoke to him and sang to him and bid him wait...and
the slumbering, Immortal Assassin, awoke.
Georgia Woods @HCBF-01/2013 Chazz Azz