After the Storm

So has the storm ended in vast spectacles, those seen, those yet to be seen. Indeed, for many times have we been experiencing over the storms; for once you have named it the Purification to indicate the ascension of your soul. Much as it is, that storm has led you onward the path to the summer, where dreams and meditation collide, bursting into thousands of magnificence. Purification has been the very characteristic, for it has depleted your legacy of grief over the frigidness of winter; long have you been submerged under the fear of darkness. Torchlight of the celebration, stars hung over the dark skies – the storm has taken them all, leaving all but the sprouts of lights to grow on.

Yet for once more has the storm arrived upon, and you have well witnessed the eye, the edge, and the grand aspirations. What have left are the twirling clouds that draw overs the canvas of the welkin, fading between whiteness and blue. Before the journey you said the day has been dominated by endless fogs, whereupon you walked under the trees, chanting over the visions of yours. My friend, your words have well been verified. Now that the storm has receded its pace, shall the sky be retained in the purity of azure, decorated by the whirl of growing white. Go, observe, mediate, my friend! The moment where images gather, the where you find your path of the next journey.

Well have I seen the magnificent clouds. Distinctive shapes and pureness of hues, yet what I see is the fire once dominating the place. And the ashes flew within; and the ashes wandered without. The sacred firmament was tainted by the dark red of blood, a fading of darkness over rust. Below the skies further lay the burning man, whose skin was charred, visions scorched. And the man saw nothing but anger – overwhelming anger, fiery anger. Alas, miserable man! For I know that he is me, bound to face the same fate of destruction. How should I be fallen as such, burning for dead; how should I be redeemed, lest the flame of anger catches upon my soul!

Much to your arrogance, fear, anger, it belongs. For countless times have I warned you over your murderous thoughts that did once, and will likely, devastate your sparkles of scenes. Much pride have you been taken over your creation, for you regard them as the mind work of yours. Indeed has meditation led you toward the higher levels, yet the arrogance out of its own has born with malice. And with arrogance comes fear, fear of losing your mind work. And with fear comes anger, anger over the undoing of yours. Arrogance is chains, chains that leash you from the pursuit of more. Let go, my friend; let it be relieved! For that even the arrogance of most hatred has originated out of your own, shall you cure it via the tranquility of your mind. Only such may you get rid of the haunting fear, and the fiery anger shall no longer appear.

I will. Forgive me of my arrogance – the words that have been repeated for countless times. For countless times, indeed, have also the journey been conducted; so have the storms. And much witness has taken its place; I have seen a thousand images. Shall what mark the recurring scene of the events, as if fates are books, written by the wisest man?

The beloved Prophet shall do. For it was him who gave the prophecy that has shed light on the course you will be taken. And after the sunrise of the greats, the purification of souls, comes the storm that enrages. Enraged storm, indeed, yet has left all but peace to be seen. Prophecy has well marked its arrival, as it has stated that the mirror forms in the aftermath. It is mirror that reflects the innermost intention of the man, dubious over his thoughts and fates. Only when his vision comes across the mirror, shall the ambitious man be astounded by its purity. And he wakes, enlightened, redeemed, soon after. My friend! Seek for the skies for once more; this time the anger shall no longer be plague.

I shall observe. I shall see the clouds forming paths, as if great mountains project them up onward to the celestial realm, where the cubic whiteness dominates its space. There they become snow white, flowers blooming in all ways; there they become limitless, tides and waves growing. And between the two great sights, comes the lone path clouded in mists. Fitting in the midway, the path leads toward the sun, accompanied by thousand rays of light. And should the sailboat be within, so that it sails its way onward. My friend, the sky is yet to be darkened! The sun hangs still; so is path, lying still. Where the azure persists, I shall become the flying bird who glides toward the spectacles, or the sighted one, whose vision seeks through. Alas! I cannot fly, nor can I see through. Only the blurred vision remains, throughout the time.

It feels as if the year has made no change. For many years have the clouds been gathering around: they have formed shapes, countless shapes. For very once did they be the dome, from which rainwater should drop. Castles well dwelled upon, where lightning protects them. The dome bore no ends, as if one could ascent toward the eternity; yet it still rained. It rained hard; it rained heavily; rainfall was a swirl. Those were the times where the tranquility takes place, for the storm cloud muted the noisiness of the nature, leaving all but the roaring of the rain. It roared so hard, yet could barely be heard; only the voice of the innermost thoughts echoed within and without. Alas, loss of time! How could the piece of silence be experienced for once more, as the calmness has well lost its place. Shall I mourn it over, and let the days be preserved.

The time changes as well, my friend. The loss of calmness over the storm has well been compensated through, for the misted path above the skies has given its answer. Bring back your vision and thoughts, look upon the skies for once more. Before the sun descends to darkness, cherish the precious chance, and do not make it a grief of regret.

Months should have relieved me, yet it uneased my mind. For days have I been plagued by sorrow. It becomes only the scenes that recover me from the mood – the scenes, the journeys. And today I witness the clouds, so will I believe it within.

We have stepped so far; we have seen so much. Look over where we stand, my friend: it shall no longer be the hesitation over our aspirations, nor the fear of pursuit. Those have sunk into the past; let us embrace toward the beyond. That the plains hold two wisemen who talked throughout the journey, they said the dreams, and they mentioned the journeys – a thousand journeys covered with lights. The wind seldom blows, cool winds over the plains, those perceived upon the British Isles.

Here lies the two wanderers. It feels as every year have we been gathering over the fields, chanting about pure meditation. Here lies the inspirations, by which your thoughts are enriched, your minds enlightened. Alas, lonely ones! Unaccompanied by the most, searching for his own aspiration. But if so, go, my friend! Follow your minds, and build it upon. For much of the relief over us, let the journey be continued.

Wanderer over the sea of dunes,
Man in white robe and wisemen talking.
Whose vision is prolonged, led by tunes,
In his journey, incessantly walking.
By the sunrise, he stood still and pondered;
So came the lone garden and the great storm,
Whereupon he never stopped wandering:
The arts of spectacles that bore their form.
Alas, miserable one over grief!
Thousand images, only remained seen;
Those cherished, those lost, those appeared in brief;
Those where he has stayed, those where he has been.
Meditating, he walks over the plain,
Where winds blow, of tranquility, yet pain.