Deep Springs, Silent Peaks

Just a glimpse of a documentary on Nietzsche, and I am swept into a whirlwind of regret, dust and pebbles clogging eyes and nostrils, those organs I once used to see mist feathered peaks and breathe crisp alpine granite rain-softened cool still hidden waters. What have I not been engaged in? Passing photo stills in the documentary of a German scholar coveting his oak and icy windows and warm pages of books, and I find myself reaching, longingly, into the computer screen. Nietzsche's last human gesture before falling into the abyss of madness was to throw his arms around a workhorse who had fallen under his terrible burden. I witness those horses in Syria. Would anyone weep for them, fallen? Oh Nietzsche, you last decent man. You embraced the animal while descending as a god--and what god doesn't retire finally into madness? When have I last admired the silent soar, watchful and fiercely intent, of an eagle? I cannot continue to give away if fresh flows are not coming in. I must trace a path to new springs.