Canto de Grillos

Se anunció con su canto de grillos. Se asomó vestida de radiante esplendor, más allá del horizonte de mi mente; y así deslizaba su presencia en mi mirar, simulando lejanías mientras sus manos tocaban cada partícula de mi ser.

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Lost Days

The thunder and clouds brought a herald of paradise. They penetrated the veil of night and arrived playing with the dawn. Behind stayed the oppressive heat of the last days. They stay almost in the oblivion while the sky plays with lights and stentor, teases with rain, and caresses my body with fresh breezes of lost days.

Could these be the lost days, the ones I didn’t live, the days of exile? Could this be why these lightnings smell like remembered oblivion? Could this be why this rain comes without being here, and wets the earth without falling? Could it be why this day I live without being here, remembering what I never lived, and I hug you welcomed in the absence that never was and in the void that fills me in plenitude?

Dias Perdidos

El trueno y las nubes trajeron un aviso de paraíso. Atravesaron el velo de la noche y llegaron jugando con el alba. Atrás quedó el calor opresivo de los últimos días. Se quedan casi en el olvido mientras el cielo juega con luces y estruendos, coquetea con llover, y acaricia mi cuerpo con brisas frescas de días perdidos.

¿Acaso serán estos los días perdidos, los que no viví, los del exilio? ¿Será por por esto que estos relámpagos huelen a olvido recordado? ¿Será por esto que esta lluvia viene sin estar, y humedece la tierra sin caer? ¿Será por eso que en este día vivo sin estar aquí, recuerdo lo que no viví, y te abrazo bienvenido en la ausencia que nunca fue y en el vacío que me llena a plenitud?

Sings the Rain

Sings the rain such multitudes inundating with joys my mind, arid and thirsty from so much reality.

Sings the rain her stories of cloud and sea.

Sings her river stream towards her destiny of vast immensity.

Sings her past, remote and cold, of immortal crown on sacred mountain.

Sings the rain her lives and pleasures in terrestrial creatures, in children and dogs, eagle and flower.

Sings, yes, and in her song she drenches my soul in her celestial flight, in her pass through the world and her lives in the sea.

She saturates my being with all those things the rain was and lived, living without being born, existing without dying, always in passing in her multiple forms, being all and no thing until it falls as rain and song in my soul of a child of the torrential tropics.

The rain falls and sings me the song of all life, her song.

The rain falls and sings me the song of all her lives, my song.

The rain falls and I fall with her. I am the raindrop that listens to the songs of the lives I was, that I am and that I will always be.

My whole life falls, drop of rain in the torrent that brings with it a piece of sky to the thirsty desert so much pregnant with life.

I fall life after life, drop of heaven, singing overflowing life in rain, storm, and dew between the heaven and the sea.

Canta la Lluvia

Canta la lluvia tales multitudes que inundan de alegrías mi mente sedienta y ardiente de tanta realidad.

Canta la lluvia sus historias de nube y mar.

Canta su recorrido de río hacia su destino de vasta inmensidad.

Canta su pasado remoto y frío de corona inmortal en montaña sagrada.

Canta la lluvia sus vidas y placeres en criaturas terrestres, en niños y perros, águila y flor.

Canta, si, y en su cantar remoja mi alma en su vuelo celestial, en su paso por el mundo y sus vidas en el mar.

Se satura mi ser de todas esas cosas que la lluvia fue y vivió, viviendo sin nacer, existiendo sin morir, siempre en paso en sus múltiples formas, siendo todo y nada hasta caer como lluvia de agua y canción en my alma de niño en trópico torrencial.

Cae la lluvia y me canta la canción de toda la vida, su canción.

Cae la lluvia y me canta la canción de todas sus vidas, mi canción.

Cae la lluvia y caigo con ella. Soy gota de lluvia que escucha los cantos de vida que fui, que soy y que siempre seré.

Cae mi vida entera, gota de lluvia en el torrente que trae un pedacito de cielo al desierto sediento tan preñado de vida.

Caigo vida tras vida, gota de cielo, cantando vida plena en lluvia, tormenta y rocío entre el cielo y el mar.

There Will Be Wine

The sacred goes where it wants to go.
Who is anyone to try to contain it
as if it were an object?

It doesn’t belong to the prophets.
No one owns what is of the gods.
I can do things
with the teachings,
with the work
that are wrong.
And that is on me.

The punishment
is that my child is slain:
the legacy,
the work,
the lineage vanishes and disappears.

Success is thy proof.

Whatever the others say about you
your techniques,
your beliefs,
your ideas,
your heresies…

The only thing that counts is success,
because it is in the hands of the gods.
If the gods look favorably on your results,
then that will survive.
If they don’t like what you present,
it will die.

We are divine.
That sacred juice flows through us.
Our product is that grape that will become wine.
But it’s not up to us what fruit will become wine.
It’s up to the gardener.

The gardener picks
the grapes that will become wine
and the ones that will not.

It’s not up to me
what my work will produce.
All I can do is produce.
If I’m right,
there will be wine.

(Poetically edited notes by Season Cole, from a talk by The Telling by Koyote the Blind)

The Four Pillars

These are the Four Pillars of Ego:

In the light of day,
ego casts a long shadow
that grows into night.

Such is my ego,
standing up to greet the light
of the Morning Star.

Faithful companion,
will serve until the last breath
for love’s sake alone..

Despised pestilence,
condemned by all holy writ,
guarding the most high.

(Herein is the secret for controlling the Four Princes of Evil under the sacred authority of your Holy Guardian Angel)

Hasta en lo Descartado

Ahora veo claro, bien amada de mis íntimos anhelos, que hasta en lo descartado y olvidado se manifiesta tu infinita presencia, llamando a tu amado, implorando desde la profundidad de tu santa ausencia que recuerde.

—-

Now I see clearly, beloved of my yearnings, that even in the discarded and forgotten your infinite presence manifests, calling your beloved, imploring from the depths of your holy absence that I remember.

These Were the Times

These were the times of heresy and discovery.

These were the days Ivan (first from the right) introduced me to a Rosicrucian Order, and challenged my faith and dogma.

These were the days our maid took me to gnostic masses and challenged me to see my privilege.

These were the days of attempting to extract nutrient from flowers to feed the hungry, of seeing specters appear and glide, of exploring abandoned scientific instruments in a University closed by the army.

These were the days before the girlfriends and the bullets, before the depression and suicidal thoughts. These were the days before the hanging by my ankles over a four story building to make me panic. These were the days before the finding of my true strength.

These were my Zacamil days, when that funny looking boy, second from the right, saw the world open up and the storm of time showed him infinity and the eternal power of not being.

Was I ever truly him? How did he know to survive by becoming me?