From the dust...
That...
It arises from the Ash of the Fire...
Never subject to time...
But conditions...
For they are always in sync with the Hand...
Flawless like internal beauty when known...
The bride can only dance with he...
The one that extends into her...
Another word cannot contain it...
The fruit from the land brought forth, for the children...
And when they decide to eat...
The skin of that cheek...
It radiates eternally...
The land of the farmer remains sacred...
Pestilences may rest on that...
But this immortal cell hosts no virus...
Akin to the new born that holdeth not the sac...
Not even the cord shall bind him to that which is not...
For the vehicle is, just that...
A maker of sorts...
A delivered message carried by the force...
Question not its existence...
It is seated there, in that...
A moment is but a picture...
One before the rain hits the ocean...
No place of origin...
No state of existence except this...
This, is beyond all things...
Including the nature of itself...
All rising and falling from that...
Even the nature of now has none at all...
doM
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