Your Ancient Passion and My Inner Silence

Your Ancient Passion and My Inner Silence

In the Name of AllaaHu, the Life of Love, the Infinitude of Love


Dear ancient friends, poets of life's seasons...

Deep inside I know that your ancient passion... is part of my inner silence and the high tides of my being. Even your wildest dreams. Though we have gained physical existence, our ancient spirits always breathe their immortality, which is love in its naked form, into space, and into the absolute void of nowhere. We understand the language of the wind and whatever it caresses. No wonder we dream of Open Nature so much....

Let us climb the high peaks of Love and feel our existence upon them. I'd like to feel rivers of wine running about our feet and the morning mist pregnant with Love's sunlight floating across our breasts... I'd like to hear the voice of Love's thunder roll over the plains that bear Mother Nature's silence and mysterious depths. I dream of pouring my existence into the silence-bound Nature... Perhaps we could blow our breaths into the wind that blows eastward? Perhaps we could turn our faces to the scentless sky that continually offends human senses? Nature can't exhaust our sleep with her moans nor will we vanish like wasted leaves in her lap, for we are older than they are. We are sons and daughters of the dawn of becoming.

Listen my dear ones... I love your eternal youth, a youth singing her heart to her days and nights. While we are sons and daughters of the beginning, beholding each other in the lustless Light of Love, the world looks like a gray infant world. Our breath is older than the currents of the air and the sea, and is one with the winged melody of the Universe, one with the indescribable transcendence of Hu ... one with al-Haqq.

If you each are a dreamer, then call me a dreamer too... yet what life is not woven by the fingers of dream? If life is the sacred loom you inherit from Hu, then the power to dream is the art you shall use to weave its fabric. When life is fulfilled, before your breath yields it to the Great Silence, it is to an idle and still unmoulded eternity that you lend your imagination's versed fingers.

Ishq,

{Dani}