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Silent Whispers
Heart Song’s Sacred Tune
Observing the collective — those fighting in the streets for rights — to be heard, like squawking crows calling murderous friends to the seen. As a friend speaks — people are dying to be heard — like little children begging for parental attention.
Silently whispering — heart songs sacred tune — for the beggars asking for something other than coin. The monetary illusion of filling voided presence of self-inflicting precarious belief-ridden reality — emptiness remains.
Like Oljita’s ability to wander freely into worlds — not subscribing to the ordinary — living extraordinary. Stepping in — like a ghost undetected by those afraid of what cannot be seen — choosing to remain present while the busy bees continue begging for attention.
Ani Kuni set to the loop-pedals beat — crying out to father-mother, creative winds — save me from the pain of my brothers and sisters’ happenstance misfortune rhythms. Forward moving — stepping out of past to present — looking to present-future tense — absent are they who have not found the present.
Like a ghost, we came, hence a ghost, we return — observing the collective whole — self-inclusive vibratory thought forever. Present are we — in this place but not of it.
