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Joy
Joy
@joynewacc@mastodon.social  ·  activity timestamp yesterday
So who is the traitor? Is it I? You? Or this world that allowed a family to taste its final farewell, a world that stood in silence before all that unfolds? There is no traitor today but the one who funded the massacre, who armed it, who fed it. There is no traitor today but the one who watches. O Lord, how the painting has incarnated in this bitter reality. The colors have faded, some features lost, yet the deepest element still remains: sorrow... grief... betrayal. And silence, that savage silence, which once rose from the traitor of Christ, and now rises from the traitors of the victims of genocide.
So who is the traitor? Is it I? You? Or this world that allowed a family to taste its final farewell, a world that stood in silence before all that unfolds? There is no traitor today but the one who funded the massacre, who armed it, who fed it. There is no traitor today but the one who watches. O Lord, how the painting has incarnated in this bitter reality. The colors have faded, some features lost, yet the deepest element still remains: sorrow... grief... betrayal. And silence, that savage silence, which once rose from the traitor of Christ, and now rises from the traitors of the victims of genocide.
So who is the traitor? Is it I? You? Or this world that allowed a family to taste its final farewell, a world that stood in silence before all that unfolds? There is no traitor today but the one who funded the massacre, who armed it, who fed it. There is no traitor today but the one who watches. O Lord, how the painting has incarnated in this bitter reality. The colors have faded, some features lost, yet the deepest element still remains: sorrow... grief... betrayal. And silence, that savage silence, which once rose from the traitor of Christ, and now rises from the traitors of the victims of genocide.
I woke today, seeking that majestic painting again. But I found no disciples, only a family gathered round a still body. A mother’s hand rests on his head, as if begging him to return to life. Sisters read the Gospel, imploring the heavens to grant him one handful more of breath. My eyes cling to every face, sparing no one. Minutes pass, yet I cannot tell: who is the traitor? The Last Supper taught me that no scene is complete without one. Is it the mother who weeps for her son? The sister who pleads with God not to host her brother today, to grant him a few more days in their embrace? Is it the small child, who denied himself sleep to keep vigil by his brother’s side before losing him forever? For no child resists sleep save for a grave cause, and a brother’s death is graver than all. But still — who is the traitor? Again I trace the two heroes: shadow and light. But today I see no light. O Lord, how have they betrayed me now? Is it no longer a masterwork? All that remains is shadow — no light at all... save for the faint glow upon the dead man’s face.
I woke today, seeking that majestic painting again. But I found no disciples, only a family gathered round a still body. A mother’s hand rests on his head, as if begging him to return to life. Sisters read the Gospel, imploring the heavens to grant him one handful more of breath. My eyes cling to every face, sparing no one. Minutes pass, yet I cannot tell: who is the traitor? The Last Supper taught me that no scene is complete without one. Is it the mother who weeps for her son? The sister who pleads with God not to host her brother today, to grant him a few more days in their embrace? Is it the small child, who denied himself sleep to keep vigil by his brother’s side before losing him forever? For no child resists sleep save for a grave cause, and a brother’s death is graver than all. But still — who is the traitor? Again I trace the two heroes: shadow and light. But today I see no light. O Lord, how have they betrayed me now? Is it no longer a masterwork? All that remains is shadow — no light at all... save for the faint glow upon the dead man’s face.
I woke today, seeking that majestic painting again. But I found no disciples, only a family gathered round a still body. A mother’s hand rests on his head, as if begging him to return to life. Sisters read the Gospel, imploring the heavens to grant him one handful more of breath. My eyes cling to every face, sparing no one. Minutes pass, yet I cannot tell: who is the traitor? The Last Supper taught me that no scene is complete without one. Is it the mother who weeps for her son? The sister who pleads with God not to host her brother today, to grant him a few more days in their embrace? Is it the small child, who denied himself sleep to keep vigil by his brother’s side before losing him forever? For no child resists sleep save for a grave cause, and a brother’s death is graver than all. But still — who is the traitor? Again I trace the two heroes: shadow and light. But today I see no light. O Lord, how have they betrayed me now? Is it no longer a masterwork? All that remains is shadow — no light at all... save for the faint glow upon the dead man’s face.
I search with my eyes, O Lord — who among them is the traitor? All surround Christ with warmth and love. Now you have made it harder for me: encircling him from every side, sharing bread, exchanging words, fearing for him as he fears for you. Who, then, is the traitor? Christ speaks of betrayal. Perhaps deep within he knows the one. But why this air of tension? Why did the disciples divide, each defending his innocence with all his might — instead of protecting him? John, Peter, Andrew, James the Lesser (son of Alphaeus), Bartholomew, James son of Zebedee, Philip, Thomas, Matthew, Thaddaeus, Simon the Zealot and... Judas. I pause suddenly between the two heroes of the canvas: shadow and light. How the shadow unmasked the traitor, and how the light revealed the faces of the innocent.
I search with my eyes, O Lord — who among them is the traitor? All surround Christ with warmth and love. Now you have made it harder for me: encircling him from every side, sharing bread, exchanging words, fearing for him as he fears for you. Who, then, is the traitor? Christ speaks of betrayal. Perhaps deep within he knows the one. But why this air of tension? Why did the disciples divide, each defending his innocence with all his might — instead of protecting him? John, Peter, Andrew, James the Lesser (son of Alphaeus), Bartholomew, James son of Zebedee, Philip, Thomas, Matthew, Thaddaeus, Simon the Zealot and... Judas. I pause suddenly between the two heroes of the canvas: shadow and light. How the shadow unmasked the traitor, and how the light revealed the faces of the innocent.
I search with my eyes, O Lord — who among them is the traitor? All surround Christ with warmth and love. Now you have made it harder for me: encircling him from every side, sharing bread, exchanging words, fearing for him as he fears for you. Who, then, is the traitor? Christ speaks of betrayal. Perhaps deep within he knows the one. But why this air of tension? Why did the disciples divide, each defending his innocence with all his might — instead of protecting him? John, Peter, Andrew, James the Lesser (son of Alphaeus), Bartholomew, James son of Zebedee, Philip, Thomas, Matthew, Thaddaeus, Simon the Zealot and... Judas. I pause suddenly between the two heroes of the canvas: shadow and light. How the shadow unmasked the traitor, and how the light revealed the faces of the innocent.
The Betrayal of Shadow and the Silence of Light In the sacred stillness of Da Vinci’s Last Supper, I once gazed upon that solemn silence, my soul entangled in every shadow, every line, every hue. My eyes, like pilgrims, wandered through the scene, returning again and again to that eternal grace. Questions surged within me like waves: Why did Da Vinci choose to paint the Last Supper? Why bind those final moments into a canvas that became an immortal emblem of human art? Is it true that all that is final, all that is sorrowful, carries a beauty that renders it eternal? Why does the world exult in elegy, in the rituals of farewell, when so often it yields to slumber at the very moments it should resist the causes of parting? My eyes roam again: now around Christ, now around the disciples. I push among them, questioning, reproaching, lamenting: How could you not save him? How could you not save the scene from the last farewell, from the Last Supper?
The Betrayal of Shadow and the Silence of Light In the sacred stillness of Da Vinci’s Last Supper, I once gazed upon that solemn silence, my soul entangled in every shadow, every line, every hue. My eyes, like pilgrims, wandered through the scene, returning again and again to that eternal grace. Questions surged within me like waves: Why did Da Vinci choose to paint the Last Supper? Why bind those final moments into a canvas that became an immortal emblem of human art? Is it true that all that is final, all that is sorrowful, carries a beauty that renders it eternal? Why does the world exult in elegy, in the rituals of farewell, when so often it yields to slumber at the very moments it should resist the causes of parting? My eyes roam again: now around Christ, now around the disciples. I push among them, questioning, reproaching, lamenting: How could you not save him? How could you not save the scene from the last farewell, from the Last Supper?
The Betrayal of Shadow and the Silence of Light In the sacred stillness of Da Vinci’s Last Supper, I once gazed upon that solemn silence, my soul entangled in every shadow, every line, every hue. My eyes, like pilgrims, wandered through the scene, returning again and again to that eternal grace. Questions surged within me like waves: Why did Da Vinci choose to paint the Last Supper? Why bind those final moments into a canvas that became an immortal emblem of human art? Is it true that all that is final, all that is sorrowful, carries a beauty that renders it eternal? Why does the world exult in elegy, in the rituals of farewell, when so often it yields to slumber at the very moments it should resist the causes of parting? My eyes roam again: now around Christ, now around the disciples. I push among them, questioning, reproaching, lamenting: How could you not save him? How could you not save the scene from the last farewell, from the Last Supper?
Joy
Joy
@joynewacc@mastodon.social  ·  activity timestamp yesterday
So who is the traitor? Is it I? You? Or this world that allowed a family to taste its final farewell, a world that stood in silence before all that unfolds? There is no traitor today but the one who funded the massacre, who armed it, who fed it. There is no traitor today but the one who watches. O Lord, how the painting has incarnated in this bitter reality. The colors have faded, some features lost, yet the deepest element still remains: sorrow... grief... betrayal. And silence, that savage silence, which once rose from the traitor of Christ, and now rises from the traitors of the victims of genocide.
So who is the traitor? Is it I? You? Or this world that allowed a family to taste its final farewell, a world that stood in silence before all that unfolds? There is no traitor today but the one who funded the massacre, who armed it, who fed it. There is no traitor today but the one who watches. O Lord, how the painting has incarnated in this bitter reality. The colors have faded, some features lost, yet the deepest element still remains: sorrow... grief... betrayal. And silence, that savage silence, which once rose from the traitor of Christ, and now rises from the traitors of the victims of genocide.
So who is the traitor? Is it I? You? Or this world that allowed a family to taste its final farewell, a world that stood in silence before all that unfolds? There is no traitor today but the one who funded the massacre, who armed it, who fed it. There is no traitor today but the one who watches. O Lord, how the painting has incarnated in this bitter reality. The colors have faded, some features lost, yet the deepest element still remains: sorrow... grief... betrayal. And silence, that savage silence, which once rose from the traitor of Christ, and now rises from the traitors of the victims of genocide.
I woke today, seeking that majestic painting again. But I found no disciples, only a family gathered round a still body. A mother’s hand rests on his head, as if begging him to return to life. Sisters read the Gospel, imploring the heavens to grant him one handful more of breath. My eyes cling to every face, sparing no one. Minutes pass, yet I cannot tell: who is the traitor? The Last Supper taught me that no scene is complete without one. Is it the mother who weeps for her son? The sister who pleads with God not to host her brother today, to grant him a few more days in their embrace? Is it the small child, who denied himself sleep to keep vigil by his brother’s side before losing him forever? For no child resists sleep save for a grave cause, and a brother’s death is graver than all. But still — who is the traitor? Again I trace the two heroes: shadow and light. But today I see no light. O Lord, how have they betrayed me now? Is it no longer a masterwork? All that remains is shadow — no light at all... save for the faint glow upon the dead man’s face.
I woke today, seeking that majestic painting again. But I found no disciples, only a family gathered round a still body. A mother’s hand rests on his head, as if begging him to return to life. Sisters read the Gospel, imploring the heavens to grant him one handful more of breath. My eyes cling to every face, sparing no one. Minutes pass, yet I cannot tell: who is the traitor? The Last Supper taught me that no scene is complete without one. Is it the mother who weeps for her son? The sister who pleads with God not to host her brother today, to grant him a few more days in their embrace? Is it the small child, who denied himself sleep to keep vigil by his brother’s side before losing him forever? For no child resists sleep save for a grave cause, and a brother’s death is graver than all. But still — who is the traitor? Again I trace the two heroes: shadow and light. But today I see no light. O Lord, how have they betrayed me now? Is it no longer a masterwork? All that remains is shadow — no light at all... save for the faint glow upon the dead man’s face.
I woke today, seeking that majestic painting again. But I found no disciples, only a family gathered round a still body. A mother’s hand rests on his head, as if begging him to return to life. Sisters read the Gospel, imploring the heavens to grant him one handful more of breath. My eyes cling to every face, sparing no one. Minutes pass, yet I cannot tell: who is the traitor? The Last Supper taught me that no scene is complete without one. Is it the mother who weeps for her son? The sister who pleads with God not to host her brother today, to grant him a few more days in their embrace? Is it the small child, who denied himself sleep to keep vigil by his brother’s side before losing him forever? For no child resists sleep save for a grave cause, and a brother’s death is graver than all. But still — who is the traitor? Again I trace the two heroes: shadow and light. But today I see no light. O Lord, how have they betrayed me now? Is it no longer a masterwork? All that remains is shadow — no light at all... save for the faint glow upon the dead man’s face.
I search with my eyes, O Lord — who among them is the traitor? All surround Christ with warmth and love. Now you have made it harder for me: encircling him from every side, sharing bread, exchanging words, fearing for him as he fears for you. Who, then, is the traitor? Christ speaks of betrayal. Perhaps deep within he knows the one. But why this air of tension? Why did the disciples divide, each defending his innocence with all his might — instead of protecting him? John, Peter, Andrew, James the Lesser (son of Alphaeus), Bartholomew, James son of Zebedee, Philip, Thomas, Matthew, Thaddaeus, Simon the Zealot and... Judas. I pause suddenly between the two heroes of the canvas: shadow and light. How the shadow unmasked the traitor, and how the light revealed the faces of the innocent.
I search with my eyes, O Lord — who among them is the traitor? All surround Christ with warmth and love. Now you have made it harder for me: encircling him from every side, sharing bread, exchanging words, fearing for him as he fears for you. Who, then, is the traitor? Christ speaks of betrayal. Perhaps deep within he knows the one. But why this air of tension? Why did the disciples divide, each defending his innocence with all his might — instead of protecting him? John, Peter, Andrew, James the Lesser (son of Alphaeus), Bartholomew, James son of Zebedee, Philip, Thomas, Matthew, Thaddaeus, Simon the Zealot and... Judas. I pause suddenly between the two heroes of the canvas: shadow and light. How the shadow unmasked the traitor, and how the light revealed the faces of the innocent.
I search with my eyes, O Lord — who among them is the traitor? All surround Christ with warmth and love. Now you have made it harder for me: encircling him from every side, sharing bread, exchanging words, fearing for him as he fears for you. Who, then, is the traitor? Christ speaks of betrayal. Perhaps deep within he knows the one. But why this air of tension? Why did the disciples divide, each defending his innocence with all his might — instead of protecting him? John, Peter, Andrew, James the Lesser (son of Alphaeus), Bartholomew, James son of Zebedee, Philip, Thomas, Matthew, Thaddaeus, Simon the Zealot and... Judas. I pause suddenly between the two heroes of the canvas: shadow and light. How the shadow unmasked the traitor, and how the light revealed the faces of the innocent.
The Betrayal of Shadow and the Silence of Light In the sacred stillness of Da Vinci’s Last Supper, I once gazed upon that solemn silence, my soul entangled in every shadow, every line, every hue. My eyes, like pilgrims, wandered through the scene, returning again and again to that eternal grace. Questions surged within me like waves: Why did Da Vinci choose to paint the Last Supper? Why bind those final moments into a canvas that became an immortal emblem of human art? Is it true that all that is final, all that is sorrowful, carries a beauty that renders it eternal? Why does the world exult in elegy, in the rituals of farewell, when so often it yields to slumber at the very moments it should resist the causes of parting? My eyes roam again: now around Christ, now around the disciples. I push among them, questioning, reproaching, lamenting: How could you not save him? How could you not save the scene from the last farewell, from the Last Supper?
The Betrayal of Shadow and the Silence of Light In the sacred stillness of Da Vinci’s Last Supper, I once gazed upon that solemn silence, my soul entangled in every shadow, every line, every hue. My eyes, like pilgrims, wandered through the scene, returning again and again to that eternal grace. Questions surged within me like waves: Why did Da Vinci choose to paint the Last Supper? Why bind those final moments into a canvas that became an immortal emblem of human art? Is it true that all that is final, all that is sorrowful, carries a beauty that renders it eternal? Why does the world exult in elegy, in the rituals of farewell, when so often it yields to slumber at the very moments it should resist the causes of parting? My eyes roam again: now around Christ, now around the disciples. I push among them, questioning, reproaching, lamenting: How could you not save him? How could you not save the scene from the last farewell, from the Last Supper?
The Betrayal of Shadow and the Silence of Light In the sacred stillness of Da Vinci’s Last Supper, I once gazed upon that solemn silence, my soul entangled in every shadow, every line, every hue. My eyes, like pilgrims, wandered through the scene, returning again and again to that eternal grace. Questions surged within me like waves: Why did Da Vinci choose to paint the Last Supper? Why bind those final moments into a canvas that became an immortal emblem of human art? Is it true that all that is final, all that is sorrowful, carries a beauty that renders it eternal? Why does the world exult in elegy, in the rituals of farewell, when so often it yields to slumber at the very moments it should resist the causes of parting? My eyes roam again: now around Christ, now around the disciples. I push among them, questioning, reproaching, lamenting: How could you not save him? How could you not save the scene from the last farewell, from the Last Supper?
AI6YR Ben
AI6YR Ben
@ai6yr@m.ai6yr.org  ·  activity timestamp 4 days ago
AI6YR Ben
AI6YR Ben
@ai6yr@m.ai6yr.org  ·  activity timestamp 4 days ago
Ms. Que Banh
Ms. Que Banh
@PhoenixSerenity@beige.party  ·  activity timestamp 7 days ago
Aral Balkan and 1 other boosted
Joy
Joy
@joynewacc@mastodon.social  ·  activity timestamp 4 weeks ago
Joy
Joy
@joynewacc@mastodon.social  ·  activity timestamp 4 weeks ago
AI6YR Ben
AI6YR Ben
@ai6yr@m.ai6yr.org  ·  activity timestamp 4 weeks ago
AI6YR Ben
AI6YR Ben
@ai6yr@m.ai6yr.org  ·  activity timestamp 4 weeks ago
Joy boosted
Joy
Joy
@joynewacc@mastodon.social  ·  activity timestamp last month
Huge respect for your courage and tenacity... you write better than many of the native English monolinguals I used to teach! That's so impressive given you have studied under strains and stresses we living in the Western world can hardly imagine. Myself and many in my circle have Goen on protests, outside war factories, to local and national protests and demonstrations in London, but the zionists have taken over key leadership position in both political parties , leaving people with the realisation democracy is just a front of fascistic profiteering form human suffering. It's very very generous of you to offer your book for free. I will send a donation and share th link with others. 🙏🙏💖🙏
Huge respect for your courage and tenacity... you write better than many of the native English monolinguals I used to teach! That's so impressive given you have studied under strains and stresses we living in the Western world can hardly imagine. Myself and many in my circle have Goen on protests, outside war factories, to local and national protests and demonstrations in London, but the zionists have taken over key leadership position in both political parties , leaving people with the realisation democracy is just a front of fascistic profiteering form human suffering. It's very very generous of you to offer your book for free. I will send a donation and share th link with others. 🙏🙏💖🙏
Huge respect for your courage and tenacity... you write better than many of the native English monolinguals I used to teach! That's so impressive given you have studied under strains and stresses we living in the Western world can hardly imagine. Myself and many in my circle have Goen on protests, outside war factories, to local and national protests and demonstrations in London, but the zionists have taken over key leadership position in both political parties , leaving people with the realisation democracy is just a front of fascistic profiteering form human suffering. It's very very generous of you to offer your book for free. I will send a donation and share th link with others. 🙏🙏💖🙏
Dear Joy Would it be ok to share the link you have provided for your book, with others that I know and ask them to donate to your page? I hope tht will be ok. I have just read teh first couple of pages and I think your writing gis remarkable. There are publications on Medium that are for poetry and if you are interested, I can look into that in depth and share them with you. Paper Poetry is one very good publication that comes to mind. 🙏🙏💖🙏
Dear Joy Would it be ok to share the link you have provided for your book, with others that I know and ask them to donate to your page? I hope tht will be ok. I have just read teh first couple of pages and I think your writing gis remarkable. There are publications on Medium that are for poetry and if you are interested, I can look into that in depth and share them with you. Paper Poetry is one very good publication that comes to mind. 🙏🙏💖🙏
Dear Joy Would it be ok to share the link you have provided for your book, with others that I know and ask them to donate to your page? I hope tht will be ok. I have just read teh first couple of pages and I think your writing gis remarkable. There are publications on Medium that are for poetry and if you are interested, I can look into that in depth and share them with you. Paper Poetry is one very good publication that comes to mind. 🙏🙏💖🙏