Poet witness of our love

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Poet witness of our love

Son of light, you were witness and accomplice of our ineffable and forbidden love. Loves captives of flowers, loves of burning hearts. Sweethearts of sleeping suns, of awake moons, of intense cries. Loves of ardent passions, of fervent moons, of shining nights. Between constellations and fleeting rain of Perseids, shone crystalline glares and blue nights of intense love. Loves of murmurs of light, and faint whispers, between soft celestial rays, under the rising blue. Between the calenders of fervent moons, you witnessed the warmth of our open flower petals. Petals of beautiful flower, impregnated in light and love.
I thought you were my affable presence, the good name you represent, faithful witness of our love. But you were just a dethroned prince, you acted like a child, with lost innocence. A child poet, among bright little flowers, among invisible perfumes, among yellow leaves of white poplars. You were my longed-for bird, a hummingbird flying over our shadows of captive love. Between beloved shadows and unlit lights, friend poet you were pure melancholy. And I want in you, a protective brother, to keep my secrets, to sow love in the golden garden of my town. And I want in you, a sincere poet, to defend our intense forbidden love, to be a faithful witness of our ardor and passion. Beyond the borders, you will find the ineffable stillness of this one, my paradise, my sleeping kingdom, of this immortal realm of Shambhala. Kingdom enchanted with music of lotus jewelry and golden nymphs. Flowers of nymphs sing serene alleluias, between slow rains, between paths of white clouds.
Child poet, I hear constant cries on the abrupt cliffs of your eternal unconscious. I would like to be able to hold you, warmly, in my warm, incandescent lap. I would like to give shine, tenderness and compassion to your avid eyes, to the glare of your eyes, to the world of your forbidden dreams. I would like to take those golden ships away from your mind, those shadows without lights, those days without sun and without flames. I would like to reach you, your own inner voice, your internal atman. Your sleeping silences move my soul away to the etheric universe.
Friend poet, I often think of death, of the end of this pure matter. I think of the wheel of samsara, the eightfold path, the six realms of existence. I trust that my vital energy, my immortal spirit rises towards the high peaks of the eternal Himalayas. Summits of omnipotent peace, whiteness full of perfection in the four luminous states of the mind.
In the land of the snows, in the kingdom of Shambhala, ancient metal music is heard in the distance … And all the suffering of samsara moves away from my exhausted heart. Brother poet, you are part of my being and of my wounded conscience. You are part of my voice and my throat is muted. You are part of my labile memory, and my own existential Self. Unspeakable pleasures, sweet melancholy you create with the beat of your dream. In you, you find a signal, an unfair heaven of memories.
A thousand words in a text have a magical meaning, in the deep roots of love. Roots of a sincere love, like eyes of secrets, like flames of will-o’-the-wisp, under the blue moon. Silent blue moon, in your omnipresent sky.
Son of the desert, cover your eyes with a purple mask in the palace of the golden swans. It is an imperfect mask that points and mocks your identity. What do you find in the background? A single word hits you, nothing matters more to you, only platonic love could give you happiness.
And I have fond memories of your lost childhood. That captive innocence that still reverberates the silence asleep, and permeates my being of a bright inner light.
How far is your purity! How far is your consciousness and the beat of your little heart! Brother poet, in the kingdom of the little hummingbird live my noblest feelings, my tenderness, love and compassion. You can not imagine how much I love you! You can not imagine how much my suffering is, by your constant reproaches and by your broken silences in the sea!
Sounds of Tibetan bowls, of metal and white quartz, are heard in the distance …
My brother, I love you and you know it, we know it today, here and now, in the eternal present.
Do not think that my love for María de Magdala is the fruit of passionate madness. It is a love of centuries, of paths of magic. It is a reciprocal love, of verses sung to the water. It is a love of poets, sweet sonnets, words of love, words … It is an incessant rain of silver stanzas. It is a love between pure souls, of warm dawns at dawn. It is a music without sounds, a song to remember tomorrow. It is an invisible, ethereal perfume of ecstatic looks under the icy mountains. It is a peaceful love of Nona hours, under trees and ashoka leaves. It is a love of winds and ineffable destinies, in endless morning hours. It is a love of two Essene hearts, flying over the sands of the Judean desert. In this pure and clear love there are no insurmountable walls, nor fences, nor borders. It is a love bridge between two hearts, to reach those clouds that escape to the celestial heavenly ceiling. It is a sweet love, like cotton candy cane, that shines with the rays illuminated at dawn. Broken silence, there are no sounds, only echoes of sweet awakenings to the soul. Sweethearts are sweet awakenings, between silences of cinnamon trees, in the valley of Hinnom. Awakenings of Essene loves, between eternal silences, in front of the sacred doors of Jerusalem.
And on the Mount of Olives, I rest peacefully, on the grass of the cemetery. Surely brother poet, my being will be lost in oblivion, captive of this distant horizon. But I want you to know, that I will never be himself again. I will close this open door, and with iron padlocks I will close the betrayals in my past.
Velvety leather armchairs accommodate my slight numbing in Olivete’s skirt. And my essence lies dormant in a field of somniferous poppies, in the limits of pragmatic reality.
A gray velvet blanket covers the coldness of my night. Night of shadows, silent night. Deep night in the Olivete’s skirt …
I hear the steps of time. Between silences I see a glint in your eyes. That look is so sweet that I forget your indifference towards me. It is so easy to forgive when the flame of love still shines!
And between slight sighs, the waves of the blue sea of ​​Galilee are heard. Sea of ​​Galilee: I want to see you, I want to feel very close to me! Deep sea, blue of immense love! Ocean blue, in my soul and in your soul!
A word of love escapes, between sounds of Tibetan bowls, to the palace of the golden swans. Words of love, only words, escape to the eternal kingdom of Shambhala.

Maika Etxarri
Copyright poetic prose and photography
Hidden history of Christ

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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 Book on the hidden history of the master Christ, Hidden history of Christ, História oculta de Cristo, Historia oculta, Historia oculta de Cristo, Historia prohibida, Poet witness of our love, Poeta testemunha do nosso amor, Poeta testigo de nuestro amor, Sin categoría. Guarda el enlace permanente.

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