A Universe, expanding.
A song, never ending.
An answer, waiting for the question.
A mystery which is mastery
Of that known before conception,
And there after soon forgotten.
Realms of the mind,
Fantasies. Revelation.
For some.Divine Matrix.
The Spirit of Man.
So many names for a rose,
Which, indifferently, smell as sweet,
Not caring for chants or bowed heads,
Or dancing fires or humbled knees.
The rose just is.
There is space of sacred love
Within us all.
There, a part of us have made a home
And from there it has watched and grown, immune
From our fears and prejudices and limitations.
When we walk into our garden of love
And reunite with it, we shall be whole.
Finally alive. Incomplete, no more.
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