Just now!

Enjoy the happiness in the sky,
in the darkness,
in the rushing veins of the earth.

Happiness is
constantly travelling
from the eyes of God to the eyes of man
But where are the eyes of God??
so that you may look into his.

The earth is wet

The earth is wet, the first rains have fallen
the smell of dust hangs in the air
the wind is strong and hard
the trees, torn folliages,and traces
and in these moments i do not understand
who's happy and who's sad?
All i know , the earth is wet, and the first rains have fallen!

The parched pond bottoms are half full
The lotus roots are streching beneath the soil
And i donot understand
who's sleeping ,and who's awake,
who's speaking, and who's silent,
All i know is the earth is red, and the first rains have fallen!

And in the land of my Beloved
it's Springtime
Flower adorn'd vallies and twittering songs,
Love is singing a song for her,
But , my heart is here with the rain,
All i know is, i'm in pain,
For the earth is wet, the first rains have fallen!

Freedom --- I

They are going to hang me tommorow
Namibia, do you hear
the fruit which you long to eat
soon shall blossom here

There's no time for grief and sorrow
Namibia do you hear
the treading of her footsteps
Is inaudible, but she's here!!

A poem

Must i speak another word
to describe what i see
And chop the wings of a flying bird
to satisfy this urge in me

Shall i not
weave from thought
to captive make of beauty
So let her fly
my metaphors die
than stagnate in my poetry

Being available

The old mystic wakes up
after having travelled arround so many memories,
so many scenes of life comes out of your " inner self" to talk of ancient things,
of a time when things were fragrant and beautiful!!

He sits upon your quietness and says" Bliss , like a star that cannot speak -- they express
their enlightenment in silence"

This is exactly how i feel at times, as i walk by the river banks, a few peniches glides along,
and tall ,old, trees with branches bent upon the waters trying to understand each other.

Today ,just like one of those other days, crosses the fields of sunbaked poppies, pushing wheat praries , takes you by your shoulders, to go looking for that hidden rock in the pinewoods,
so you could squat upon and watch the sun pierced dancing leaves, and make you conscious
of those intense activities organised into so many subways of energy.

From the leaves to the branches,the trunk, the roots -- all the way down.....the tree!!
"The great tree" outside you steps into you to remind you of the great tree within you , Your personal tree, just there with its branches spread out in the wind while flower petals detach and falls into the Soul river that guides you beyond the universe of thoughts.

Touched by an experience such as this can make me talk of trees, rocks and rivers;
for each day ,a banquet awaits each one of us, some sort of spiritual banquet just as it appears today through the warm sunny day , filled with pleasent pulse beat in the psyche, whispering so many silent things.

The principles of life are hanging from the skies, their wings flaps from sunrise to sunset, in the night they hover your dreams and plunge into your conscience,they do and undo your chains
so you could realise that nevertheless you stay free.

INK AND THE SOUL BETWEEN THE FINGERS

If i could i'd write to you everyday, i would then do so...just the way i'm doing it right now!
a step closer with every word, i displace myself even more closer to you,

i love writing
i find it to be one of the most graceful gesture,
it undoes, it relieves,
it blends ink and the soul between the fingers.

i write, when i feel well;
iwrite, when i suffer
Writing, is'nt like a phone call, its much more full with oneself,
to write, is an act that upsurges from within;
the ink translates the soul, it's nuances and subtilites
to write, if one could settle down so that all the heavens and hells may converge upon the pen point
the soul and the chant, the ink and the point??
Sponteneously seizing the outsides with your insides;
Sometimes, i feel that i don't write anymore with my pen, but with my suffering, and sufferings knows not writing with a pen, but with a knife...therefore, all that could be written, are nothing but drops...drops of blood spreading.
ceaselessly, they fall on a page, not the usual way,rather, in a wordless way, bleeding phrases.

Sometimes, the darkness devastates my being,and there's very little light left ,
and me ,the Don quixote fight against the windmills.

However ,today is a day the penpoint wants to chant, so i find myself in a position, as malleable as possible.......a natural joy,just as a sun coming into the spaces can only fill with light, a light that renders visible, the beautiful world.
the crap, becomes more beautiful than the "diamond sutras",
there's no crap when the heart's so full of love, so clear and sponteneous to all things.
And then?
If this is'nt prayer? then? what's it??