El último destello

¿Acaso tengo que cerrar los ojos, dejar atrás la luz del día, entregarme al vacío y dejarme llevar por la corriente del olvido, tan solo para poder besar con el último destello de conciencia tu remota presencia nocturna?

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Do I have to close my eyes, leave behind the light of day, give myself to the void, and let the current of oblivion carry me, only to be able to kiss with the last spark of consciousness your remote nocturnal presence?

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Yo que Soy Mortal

Tan solo el eterno sol en las alturas se ve más allá de la profundidad existencial de tu cuerpo. Ese sol que viaja ya más allá de todo límite y toda ilusión. Es el sol de mi más íntimo centro; y estando por encima de todo vivir y todo sentir se ve no sumergido por ti, mi bien amada, sino reflejado en cada gota de ti, pintando sus destellos en tus olas, besando tus profundidades con su ardor, y recorriendo tus vaivenes.

Yo que soy mortal me sumerjo en ti. Yo que soy eterno divino me reflejo en ti. Y al final del día, hasta el mismo sol quiere sumergirse en tu vientre, como reflejo efímero de su eterno sumergir al disolverse como estrella en el océano eterno del infinito vacío.

La Lejanía Inmensa de tu Voz

Y es preciso en este instante en el que veo el silencioso titiriteo de las estrellas que han recorrido no solo el vasto océano vacío, sino también un inmenso océano de tiempo para poder estar aquí, como luz y como silencio entre ruidos y oscuridades.

Pero veo aún más, infinitamente más.

Veo claramente que precisamente así tú, mi bien amada, has emanado tu silencio y tu luz a travez de las profundidades del abismo de vacío para que mis ojos puedan abrirse, para que mis oídos escuchen tus silencios, para que mi mente se disuelva en las lejanías inmensas de la eternidad de tu voz.

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?

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.

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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.

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.

This Impulse to Know

My mother ocean, maybe she’s hoping one day to have swelled so much that one tip of her womb would breach the infinite ocean above and become one.

One with what? It does not know. It only knows that one day long, long ago it must have come down from that big, big, big heaven. One day it, the ocean, was only a drop that came down from that roaring, infinite vastness of which the sun and the moon are just two tiny creatures that play with her, that penetrate and pull her, making her give birth over and over again.

One day––and this is for sure to happen one day––she will also die and become one once again with the oceans whence she came. Then she will forget herself as the waters above swallow her whole, and her consciousness and vision become stretched way beyond her capacity to know, to think, to remember, and to be.

And so, every star, and every galaxy, and every God one day too will dissolve into the vast, vast ocean-void whence they came.

That part I know. That part I remember.

What I don’t know and cannot know is why that vast ocean of mother Binah swells once again and sets me forth into this harsh and vast light. Why again am I down here where I forget, where all I know is to yearn, and to love, and to desire?

Not even having the memory of what it was, I only have the pain of the yearning; and out of my soul, the depth of my being that has no name, no memory, no ego, nothing… but out of the depth of this pain, the memory of my origin pulls me, and the presence of God penetrates me day and night. In thought and in silence it pulls me. And out of me comes, now as a thought, then as a whisper, this little impulse to go back.

Go back… Go back… This impulse… This thing in my heart of hearts that wants to swell up, flutter up, and become and know what is there outside myself.

Why Does the Ocean Swell?

Why does the ocean swell?
Is it the pull of the Goddess Moon
high above at the heart of that other ocean,
holding so many stars?
Is it the yearning and the loving of this earthly sea,
stuck here in planetary existence with us
trying to get back to the higher waters,
to that infinite ocean to which our own is but a drop?
Is it that love for the divine,
the love for the womb,
that makes our mother ocean swell and become wave?

Is that what makes you, God, swell with pride and become life?
I don’t know. It’s not mine to know.
For I only know when I am the wave,
and the wave is movement;
and I move and I move,
and I grow and I play,
and I explode and I rumble.
I tumble, then I die.

Maybe after kissing the ocean,
maybe after touching the light,
maybe after giving way to a behemoth well,
maybe after swallowing a ship or two,
I am wave.
As wave I am the ocean
and there is no difference between my water and her water.

And yet I am not her.
I have all her qualities and characteristics.
The composition of me is the composition of you,
and all together we don’t even touch the infinite vastness of her.

From the Telling: Born of Purusha, by Koyote the Blind

They Had to Keep Us Ashamed

“The high priests of the slave religions knew that for the human being to never be able to reclaim the magnificent vistas of the higher worlds, and for the human being to nevermore be able to satiate the yearning and the pain, they had to keep us ignorant.

They had to keep us ashamed of this force that rises from the loins, that inundates the body. They had to make us believe—really believe—that this force was only for procreation; and for those who rebelled, to make us believe that this force could also be used for fun. While both are true, they hid from us that these forces are not just for procreation or fun; they hid from us that the very force that creates a universe is hidden in our flesh.

From then on, all those who create churches or gods, families and groups; all those that divide us between genders, clans, politics, casts, nations and social class, are only working to keep us away from the true genius that lies dormant within the dark confines of the flesh.“––The Witches’ Sabbath

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A Child Sitting by the Ocean

As a child in El Salvador, I would stare at the ocean in this picture, vast and loud.

In El Espino, this almost infinite amount of water expanded from horizon to horizon, flooding the consciousness of the observer. As far as the eye can see, ocean all the way to the sides. Just imagine that vast ocean pulling at your consciousness, stretching your vision as much as it can be stretched.

I sat there just watching, trying to encompass such vastness with my eyes. It pulls on the mind. It pulls with that moving uniformity, always changing and always staying the same. Nothing to break that moving monotony.

Behind me, the jungle. Which is to say, a vast nothingness. Only a hint of something behind me, also watching this ocean. And as the ocean keeps trying to penetrate my consciousness, as it almost drowns me with its almost behemoth presence.

I try to get a little bit bigger than it, to a be able to hold it. But my vision can no longer stretch. That rumbling comes from in front of me at first, but very soon that tremor of sound is encompassing me from all sides until I don’t know what is pulling at me more: the sight or the sound. 

After a while there’s no difference. There is just the ocean. Vast. And the little me that was there is subsumed by that roaring waters coming at me through my eyes and ears. Now, every little thought that tried to come up and say something, whisper something, was drowned.

I had been irrevocably swallowed by that monster. Dissolved. Even the sun who was shining harsh, hot, unbelievably hot on me, no longer seems to have a presence. Even the heat itself had become just part of that roar, part of that rumble and rolling of consciousness.

The regular movement of that vibration has by now become every sensation outside of me, and inside.