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.

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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?

The Roaring of Her Voice

As I sat there listening to the roaring of her voice, knowing that behind me there was a jungle of life, and in front of me an ocean of time,

I could see the immensity in front of me; and behind me, the void. Everything and nothing behind me––just empty space. All that there was, was the ocean before me. All I could hear were her stories, but the stories kept coming one after the other. The images of origins and endings, beginnings and nevermores were here inside me and outside of me, and as the ocean was inside my mind, bursting it open, I couldn’t tell the difference between the ocean in me and the ocean outside.

I had no idea where I was. I had no idea what I was hearing. Voices came and went until every word, and every concept, and every memory lost any proportion and meaning. It was just sounds until no longer could I remember who or what I was, what I was hearing, what was she saying––only that reverberation that was felt through skin and spine, only the wailing until nothing else could be had, until that point of reference which is I was barely there.

Yeah. There I was, just a point of view, barely there. I, perceiving the ocean, hearing the stories. The almost I. The barely I. The uncreated. The eternal. That nothing that was not absent. That point which was ceasing to be. Unmanifested. Uncreated.

Something sat, maybe. I cannot really tell you for I did not see it sitting. There was an immensity, I believe so now. I can’t really say. For compared to what could that be an immensity?

There was a vastness that came and went that would give me moments of reprieve, when I could collect myself and think maybe enough to know myself as the teller of stories, as the thinker of thoughts, as the one who yearns for the kiss of that vastness whence I came.

I could never have enough time to consolidate this long enough before she would take me again, before my point of view would change to being a vast something that had existed from the beginning of time and will continue to exist until the end of time when the last flame in the last star goes off.

Do Not Waste Time

Here is the third and last commandment left by Ce Acatl Topilttzin Quetzalcoatl to his four high priests:

“Do not waste the time given to you by Ometeotl, the divine dual-trinity, on this world. Labor day and night towards the good without wasting time, for you shall not know if you will live again, if you shall know your true visage there in the world of true existence. Take prudent advantage of your lifetime.”

We Toltecas learn to use death as an advisor. This doesn’t mean we brood over the certainty of death, nor that we adopt metaphysical views about it. We simply use the certainty of the end of all things, including the end of this dream of life, to help us know that this moment is of extreme importance.

More in Tolteca 3:

http://amzn.com/B010NUJH1Y

Preñado de tu Luz

Preñado de tu luz sostengo la pluma en mis dedos. La mente vieja intenta dar a luz, pero el silencio gana esta batalla.

Y así nomás, sin porqué ni para qué la pluma toca el papel vacío y juntos dan sentido y rumbo al torbellino de silencio que tu aliento impregnó en mi ser.

Comenzó precisamente así, como la diminuta partícula de tinta que ni gota llega a ser, que no tiene sentido ni razón pero que sin barrera posible da comienzo por movimiento sutil y delicado de muñeca y dedos a las letras y palabras de luz torrencial que plasman al fin lo que me inunda a plenitud.

Así sale al fin un clamor a ti. Así se plasma en el vacío sin expresión un arroyo de tinta y palabra que quizás un día llegue al vasto mar. O quizás no llegue nunca, y tan solo se evapore gota a gota convirtiéndose en inperceptible vapor, uno con el cielo, sin rumbo ni ambición. Hasta que algún día llegue a ser tormenta, rocio, o arcoiris en el cielo azul.

––Koyote. junio 13, 2015