A rooster flies without cardinal points.
Insight
I have once again recited my poem of spasms and, in front of the dark bud of my pineal gland, my flower awakens at times with soft pauses over the refuge of my secret. Now I live in my dream and I know that we are already the lullaby of an eternal sun. Those roads, without the escape path to divine consciousness, were and are the crunching wound of these hemispheres, where the third eye dissolves the crucial and dense matter of a foliage that covers the already thick depths of things. Now my room sustains the light of midnight, the chalky vision that ignites the celestial breath at the birth of new stars. My soul is stepped upon in all the shapes of darkness, and there I wait for you. This is my first song in the crown of life and you dance in my thoughts. I do not see you, because the drop has merged into the ocean. An internal lighthouse that now descends like the first leaves spiraling at the end of summer; they fall upon the green grass and go singing to the autumn that silently approaches. We were fragments of the Absolute amidst the sidereal fire, dark silences of heights pointing toward the union of the earth and the heavens. Bodies that harbored the geometry of manna, sacred essence, pure consciousness joined to a tail of extremity and movements; the divine spark that the exterior carved into the rock.
Roxane Aristy
Fragmentos
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