The Path (Poetic Prose)

—The Path
((Path to the Refaim Circle) (Poetic Prose))



Dr. Siluk and his wife at the Circle of Rephaim (in back of them)



There was a path that lead to the rock heap, the heap that was called—by many names, one being “The Wheel of the Giants,” the very same heap that was called “The Rephaim Circle,” the very same one referred to in legend, and in biblical verse, in Chapter Six, in the Book of Geneses—refereeing to the giants of those far-off days. The path, neither a road or lane, just two parallel—dimly discernable, even as an official path, just tracks where a tractor had gone, where its wheels had left an impression in the soil, smashing and obliterating the tall yellow and fragile weeds and grass making it a path, to the stone heap—in the Golan Heights of Israel, the renowned and legendary Circle of the Giants, to its edge of the perfectly round orb of stones, there I stood at the front of this so called path—even less than a trail—the heap behind me, and Professor Alon in front of me, “Take my picture,” I asked him, there with my wife—holding back the suspense for a moment, of being on the tumulus of the heap—

knowing triumph would be sooner than later—not wanting to miss nothing—especially this picture with the ancient stone shrine behind me, the sun buggy and bright over head shinning like a brass harness around my neck, nearly a windless morning, light dust, this being an invincible excursion for me, to be in full blossom in moment, yet to discover its grim inevitability, that once, over five-thousand years ago—that once, possibly once: possible—and probable—ageless angelic beings, and their offspring, the giants, worshiped here, surely built this 42,000-ton stone monument. And then he took the picture—passion and aspirations, specific passions were at its height. With a soft, and musing voice, of one who narrates—and one who can hardly believe after twenty-five years of seeking to see this mysterious site, there it was, and there I was, on top of the heap, finding myself to be—this day to be, a compulsive talker, which I am not.

No: 2769 8-3-2010
Written in Lima, Peru