The Salve & The healing cup

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The Tree Stamps…

 

On a Blue moon Sunday,
Dwarves laid their eggs by a tree

The eggs hatched and out came being’s

beings that were heavenly, like the trees….

God wove his magic in this realm. They called it synthesis or a blue moon sunrise. 

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***This picture was taken from the speaking tree section in the TIMES OF INDIA, 13-10-2013

The fire of trees.

The Blue moon sunrise symbolizes eternal embodiment. It means sunshine through the waters.

that emulsifies with hues of blue and yellow to give us the color of nature, which be green.

Wether this be a shadow or reflections of it, I know not. But, what it really is, is synthesis .

Whenever trees burn God’s work is at play. He is burning the trees for a greater tomorrow for his people, as it signifies fertility and new offspring.

 New buds and newer trees, 

 of old one’s that have been.

Elements of psychology.

When internal elements mix with running sound, the resounding voice is of the cervical chord. Strung with a bow, it is the wisdom man has ever strived to achieve over cancer. The one disease that terrorizes the human regime.

Images disqualify the build up of this negative energy, that contemplates human society into dump yards of development. Chunks of surmounting gaseous elements that choke the atmosphere in it’s naturally breathing state, describing the fever of disease that the manav or human population faces.

Quantity in its sublime nature of subjectivity, is a reprovable of the enormity of sacrifice one must under go in order to positively reciprocate the casual nature of the disease, that is the deformation of genital information. To reprimand this insolubility, the degeneration of matter back into its un-manifested state that is clarity.

On one level we form this diagnosis, and on the other hand we degenerate it. Substanscially speaking the quality of the data recovered from the process is amounts to zero, that is figuratively infinite. This data is time maneuvered and is a variable constant. By which I Refer to the development of the human vocal chords as being manufactured as the workhorse of the brainstorming human mind, where work is derived from the quality of ones solitude.

Growth is sublime so is our rotating cervical disk, that traversing neurons magnified as dendrites qualitatively subjected as wizened electrical organs of resonating sound.

Splish ! slush! What we have here is a mystically developed heavenly sound. Laughter echoing amidst the bosom, and the refrained dog of enormous multitude. Where is the moon? I forgot she was here first. It is creativity I am referring to. It is logically illogical. The magic of the un-manifested, manifested through the development of the cervical/vocal centers. One of the special effects of our grounding knowledge in the journey into the un-manifested which, from then, reaches the center of  our earthly reality. A magnetic journey into sunshine.

Man is no-man. Just like nothing is something. By which one deduces the eternal existence of our reality as the bliss of sunshine. The subject is manifested energy. If knowledge is our existence and time eternal where does our reality exist?

If three suns make a moon, how many moons would one sun make?.

Eternal wisdom emanating from a stone or grass is a measure of love. Love is the eternal substance of creative energy. The willingness to impart it, is growth.

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A Shakuhachi melody

wahan

What you know is what you seek

Today or Tomorrow an unearthly piece it brings…

Sing now and you will see

LOve tales and honey dew in tears

A swan is hurt, A swan is hurt!

Tomorrow I greet this day

O! Sun from Japan

Wise mourner what is yuu seek?

“An unearthly wisdom in the silent breez’e”, replies he.

“Honey dew and some pleasantries”

Like a Melody that took from divinity

What could taht be?

O! milk of Paddy

we sing rag’s woven through time – Chakradhara

https://roompablog.files.wordpress.com/2013/05/khairam-tea-song1.mp3  

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Strange sounds and a forest nightingale, in a blurry sunrise across the western shore of

Kamundican.

Lights that light the sky are not rare yet she cries and sings like spire harp at that sight.

She is aged yet knowledge eludes her, as time is still and the waining moon is by her breast.

my sight eludes her, but I know that the cry brings a misery for none to tell.

A storm in a tea cup?