Traveler of the dawn (The desert rose)

Traveler of the dawn (The desert rose: ancestral mythology)

You will be a traveler of the dawn, immortal pilgrim eagle, in the announced chronicles of the ancient Egyptian manuscripts. Atalanta will harass you in your eternal waiting, in your eternal dawn, in the path of the white clouds. Spirits of white light will hacinarán in haunted lands and enchanted by the winds of Egypt. And the wolf packs will approach, cautiously, in the heat of the will-o’-the-wisps of your beloved people. You will be riddled with the hurtful mosquito, tiger of Egypt. And their deadly bites will dig into your skin; in your skin, dark and hot. You will remain a prisoner of samsara, in a cold golden prison of human slavery. You will be a white butterfly chrysalis, on the eightfold path to nirvana. Erato, your beloved prince, exalted by the gods of Olympus, will never have to fear your forgetfulness, nor your own captive love. And your secret of love will be sealed, hidden in the sarcophagi of the new frozen necropolis, in ancient Egypt. On the road to immortality you will hear the sobs of your little son, in the luminescent nights of excessive terror. And your sweet tears, wiped away, marred by your imprisoned and forbidden love, will stir the consciences of fallen black angels. Poor wounded child! Divine angels will cry out in heaven. Poor child wounded !, lacerated by the most torn pain, by the pains and the essence of his feared oblivion. And it will rock out exhausted, in your warm arms, warm as silvery ashoka leaves, like topaz rays in the tender shelter of your slowest love. His tears of silver, drops of thin rain spilled, will whistle to the winds of the Sahara; filling the blessed patience of the guardians of the forbidden garden. Enslaved tears, of rivers of silver, will soak his cheeks slightly rosy. Tears of a child, tears of the world, looking for flowers and lights, in the deep oceans of mirror and crystal. Seas of pure diamond and metal,Oceans of tender crystal hearts. Seas of transparent skies, where loves of free spirits will sprout towards sweet immortality. The snores of the great white bear will reveal your hidden secrets, among melodies of souls and rivers, among strange rainbows. Secrets of hidden love will escape to the heavens, to the supreme constellations of Cepheus and Perseus. They will unfold their hyaline wings, like libertarian eagles, like white fans lifted to the wind of your desert. On the night of the bats Erato will tell infinite love poems to you, mother, his beautiful beloved idolized. And the transmigration of your soul will be sealed and hidden, in the sarcophagi of the new frozen necropolis. Meanwhile, Mióstenes will keep the history of the transmigration of your immortal essence, in tombs protected by shifting sands and browns. And your immortal soul, in that celestial place, will contemplate all the forbidden truth of the hidden, intelligible essence. The four real elements: water, fire, earth, and air, will protect you, mother, adored and beloved, from your treacherous enemies. And your soul, already calm, will travel free in two winged white steeds to rest in the shadow of daily oblivion. You will be the traveler of dawn, immortal pilgrim eagle, messenger of immemorial time on the ineffable path to moksha, to nirvana. And your spirit already calm, appeased, will dream of a more human world. A remote world, stripped and distanced, from attachment, from vile betrayal and unreason. A spiritual paradise distanced from betrayal and cruel deception. Ethereal whirls will engulf his fatal vanity and his overbearing pride. Mortal pride and excessive vanity of the material world. You will sing songs to the celestial universe, Sanskrit chants, to appease the spirits of the gods Zeus and Mars. And your spiritual contact, with the luminous states of the mind, will feel the tear of the attachments, in your sweet and immortal soul. Divine immortality, excessive supreme liberation. Meanwhile, the cold cold is nailed, vilely, in the most sacred entrails of the promised land. Hidden feelings of unbridled passion, escape to the snowy peaks of the eternal Himalayas. Red passion of subtle loves, of Essene loves, under the indigo skies of Asia. Unbridled passion, unknown in the ancient Hebrew town. Passion of immortal loves, from ancestral times, immemorial. And in the eternal present, you hide the secret of the flower of your passion. Hide your most fragile senses to hear the sweet sounds of the eternal and forbidden forest. Perfect and beautiful sounds appease, and calm, the tremulous winds of your soul of white light. Agitated was your essence, in an infinite sea of ​​sandstorms. And in the eternal present, serene is your essence, to perceive the gentle breeze of the winds, in the desert of Judea. Indomitable winds touch pure hearts, between sunsets and false mirages. Winds of the desert caress, with tenderness, your infinite immortal love. Love of the daughter of heaven, of the bride of the wind, love of an Essene heart. Desert of quiet love, love of sacred fire. Love of sublime instants, of ethereal instants, that melt and burn, like the intense sunsets, in Kashmir.
Love, slow and calm, like shadows of lights and dreams, between tender sparkles of suns, between subtle perfumes of white orange blossoms. And in the storms of the desert, you hear sobs felt, in the distance … Sobs, salt water, soaking your cheeks, slightly rosy. And the sleeping souls are stirred in their most placid dreams, listening to the moans and sweet sobs of your beloved people. You will find mystic relief in the hidden labyrinth of your pilgrim mind. A relief, ascetic and initiatory, in your complex and pragmatic conscious fullness.
Pilgrim mind, in the desert of life. White light traveler, messenger in time, from the beginning of Genesis, from the origin of the universe, from the sacred tree of life.

Maika Etxarri
Page 79

Acerca de palabrasdeluzypaz

Soy un espíritu libre poeta, enarbolando la bandera de la paz y libertad, en este universo existencial. Vivo en el eterno presente, aquí y ahora, bajo el poder del amor, sin la incertidumbre del mañana, sin la esclavitud del nuevo orden establecido mundial. Maika Etxarri Escritora, poeta, blogger y fotógrafa Autora del libro: La rosa del desierto
Esta entrada fue publicada en Compass Rose (The desert rose), Desert walker (The desert rose), Egypt heart of African Nepal (The desert rose), Lit white candles (The desert rose), Mother Freedom (The desert rose), Sin categoría, Son of the Sun (The desert rose), Tibetan Songs (The desert rose), White rose without thorns (The desert rose). Guarda el enlace permanente.


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