At the Source of Truth

A mind may settle in a groove of circumstance suspended, unaware of all the deep beneath, all the sweet bouquets tossed out by early travelers taking pity on the darkness that they saw ahead; they gave the best of theirs to give, the little spurs of light , the baubles that would never lead them forward, only penetrate and stay, waiting for their call. And there they wait, the sperm of new philosophy amid the flowers, patronal in release, and bearing thunder in their genes, a tracing that will probe the silent ages for the helpless now, and flashing, flashing an integrity that says, Go back still more to celebrate the birth of consciousness. Go back, into the womb of God, finally the mother of your soul. You bear in your own body all the scars of sacrifice, all the seeds of wisdom, all the triumph of eternity. There lies the postulate of faith. Yours, the litmus of belief. ~