Silent Midnight

Oh, silent midnight

Empty canvas of the light kingdom

Of winged sacred spirits that have surpassed flight

Companions of shadows, guardians of the god of light

 

Daughters of the blind gods of creation that wore stars for sight

Weavers of nets that sift the contents

Of souls suffering from reality's plight

Childish gods of creation that play at the infinite shores of the present

 

Dipping their crafty hands into the glistening ocean of life

To mould meditating sculptures that exudes a harmonious energy

The everlasting breath of peace

That quiets the tides of the ocean of life

Warriors armed with stillness

At war with monsters that ride upon the backs of the winds of time

 

Oh, silent midnight

Goddess of the stars

Monks that praise her through their light

Daughter of the forgotten gods of dreams

 

Brown skin beings

That dreamed themselves out of reality's seams

To take refuge on the land that

Resonates laughter when the tree of life breathes

 

Brown skin beings born from leaves

Plucked from the en-flamed branches of the golden great tree

Leaves that whisper secret conversations of the tree of life

To the unborn

 

Oh, silent midnight canvas of the light

My soul laughs with thee

At reality's fragile light

Oh, silent eve

That stars praise through their light

I have joined the insane choir conducted by the sea

Forever bless us with your silence

As we laugh till the END OF TIME

 

 

 

The looting of society’s dreams and imaginatio

It is as if they have consciously built a cinema that incessantly plays one movie that reinforces its walls and rids us of the nuances that illumine us.

 

Their eyes carry heavy residues from dust clouds breathed to life by the lies they speak to keep the monotonous reality alive.  Their eyes blinded by this weight, they walk and stumble in their life journeys and attack each other with foreign phrases, foreign beliefs, and foreign identities for protection while those that hold the bricks of building communities sit and clap, entertained by all this.  And the children have found fun ways to deal with the pain.  They have found a way of dipping their tongues into bottles that scream to be emptied, and with those tongues they paint over their paintings of dreams so as to forget them.

 

See, being from a small town such as Parys and an unknown township called Tumahole, one sees how a reality is created and how it’s fed constantly so it can sing a mantra that deafens the ethereal whispers of dreams.  One observes how crowds gather on Saturday mornings with tears playing hide and seek with the childish winds of sorrow, hiding behind eyelids while another is being buried; metallic shovels sending flights of red soil into holes to blanket expensive caskets.  And on Saturday nights with eyes tired from grappling with tears the same crowds gather and with hands bruised by the unfeeling metallic shovels pick up glass shovels and send numbing rains of distilled liquids to bury their dreams that lie in reinforced caskets of fear.

 

Still the created reality sings its mantra: ‘ride the waves of conformity or drown in the endless ocean of self’.  Seduced by the fragrances of the unknown I drown, with a still mind, a heart enchanted by the magic of love, and an imagination fueled by the creative energy that binds all.

 

It is sad to watch politicians and social "servants'' loot the society of its money, but it is death to watch them loot the society of its dreams and imagination.

 

Son of forgotten gods.