27 May, 2012

Counting the wet days 'til the reign ends


Einstein once waxed lyrically, 'Not everything that counts can be counted, and not everything that can be counted counts.' What matters most is the footfalls of feet upon the pavement, feet that echo the  liberated heart that is on the move. Who knows when, who knows how, but the destination is reached because there is not enough pain that can exist between oppression and liberty. From sadness' rain comes summer's hope, and lost children know that their father's ears is awakened to their plight, that before long Mother will surprise their cries with a smile.


As the sabre's rattle grows deafening, gentle hearts begin to flutter, knowing they have no physical strength to resist, but only the anvil mind to impugn the blows of tyranny. Come arrests, poverty, imprisonment, there will still be that infidel - the freed mind - that cannot be handled, hoodwinked or handcuffed; a teflon phenomenon that has no purchase, try as they may to threaten it with doubt or redemption. There is 'No Kingdom Come' for the already arrived. These are not sad days, only salad ones. 


At the temple of Source, we find ourselves dressed in the garb of gratitude, as naked as day one, blessed with the scythe of innocence, the elixir of laughter and the open hand of truth. One more victim has become one more virtue, and flowing blood becomes flowing wine. God's party has begun, a toast to eternity.