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.

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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.

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.

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

Consuelo para un Corazón de Niño

Hay un dolor en el silencio desde el día que no la vi.
Donde quiera que volteo, su ausencia me sorprende y me atrapa.
Y este corazón de niño no sabe para donde ir,
pues la siente aquí y no la ve,
la sabe ausente pero en todo la ve.

Se ha convertido en la ausencia del que murió,
eternamente lejos pero en todo aquí.

Se ha vuelto pregunta incansable, tormenta del qué pasó.
Está confundido este corazón, sin saber a donde ver.

Y es que ella era la voz que entra en mi templo
preguntando si me puede ver.
Era silueta en la puerta.
Era el texto diario y la broma inesperada.
Era la risa a flor de piel, y el peso del mundo.
Era dolor gentil,
duda de si,
mirada triste y eterna.
Era compañera de mis silencios.

Hoy es dolor del silencio.
Ya no se oye su voz detrás de las cortinas.
Bueno, no la oigo, es cierto, pero la anticipo.
Todavía mis ojos esperan ver su figura siempre al trabajo y con paso brusco,
y aún siento su altar divino en un cuarto ya vacío.
Abro la puerta y espero ver los santos en las paredes
y los espíritus sorprendidos escurriéndose en las esquinas.

Y creo que al fin encontré la clave de la incógnita.
Ya puedo susurrarle a mi corazón la explicación de su sentir.

Eres, corazón de niño, un viejo altar encendido en un cuarto ya vacío.

Why I Lay This Soul to Be Torn Apart

I have seen the dunes of time, rolling with the shifting sands of the endless desert between the dream of life and the wake world of the House Absolute.

Who can cross this unforgiven vastness?

Who survives the ancient whirlwind that tears apart gods and worlds?

Who stands whole before the terrible stentor of The Heart Of The Sky, whose voice creates and destroys the infinite abode?

Who will cross this desert, whose ever shifting dunes are formed out of the cold breath of the eternal void upon the sand of time where every grain is the unique divine point of view of every traveller, of every dreamer of the House Absolute who ever entered this desert void?

And why is it, beloved of my soul, that I would lay that very soul to be torn apart, to add one insignificant grain to the infinite sand? It is so that you too may come to find your completion, your satiety in the constant embrace of the beloved, and that you may also know the glory in plenitude as I have.

When I Can No Longer Remember

What is this, penetrating me over and over again?

What is it that pulls me out of myself, over and over again? What is impregnating, causing me to give birth to words and stories and thoughts? What presence is sending these words out to see if any survive, to hear some of them coming back to die in the vastness of my mind?

Thousands of children created, all living inside myself; a few of them daring to come out in words, in teachings, in thoughts and stories. What is their life like out there? I don’t know. All I know is the swelling in me that sends them out; and they go out there not knowing why I sent them. I can’t tell them that. They cannot know why. That is for me to know. That yearning is mine, and I send them out, each one with its own orbit, to live and die, to one day come back.

More and more are created in me, from the pulling of that Goddess-priestess––her silver touch pulling all the way down to my womb. And that sun God! Harsh, brilliant and penetrating, hitting my flesh, burning.

This womb of my heart is ready to swell, to live, to yearn, perhaps one day to surrender into that vast thing I call the ocean, when I can no longer see it because it’s too big, when I can no longer hear it because it’s drowning me, when I can no longer remember myself stepping into the waters.