Since from the last two years I’ve been getting so many invitation letters from a site called Mind Valley. Only once, I had tried to contact with them but while listening the lectures, I utterly became uninterested since the whole concepts appeared as polar opposite from me. But yesterday, I’ve once visited the page and it’s subordinate pages out of the blue. And I finally learned about the front mortal of Tantra Meditation who’s name was Psalm Isadora and who took her own life just a few months ago. I got hurt, I got hurt because a 42 years old lady still talking about the body, sex and the relevant accessories. How shame at that age when a man or woman remains imbecilic! Buddha said, they grow in size not in wisdom. I hope, she might realized the trivialities of sex or Tantra sex before she encountered with self-destruction. I wish, if finally she had realized that this body carries nothing but mind is everything. Hopefully in her next streaming consciousness would careful about the virtues of mind.
Immortality scatters sparsely likewise the wind trailer around the woods,
Sorrow-less madrigal sprawls and falls from the cobweb apparently seems suicide..
While falling down through a parachute someone thinks dead is just near far….
Or what Turing thoughts about the life, is it timeless during the sacred bites taking place…or did Gibran realize that love is truly timeless..
While our very impermanency, and our forlorn Wee-ness are they propagating their illusions throughout the parallel universe so fast…
No, no you don’t have to concern about that just tear out your concentration from your watch and let it immerse into the whole history of Time or just let swallow the whole package and permeate the rhythm of your heartbeat around the space………
In the memories of Fir Trees
And that rain-wash climbing road,
From where have vanished
Your varsity and foolish family life.
Still we listen that crowing of the pigeons
Throughout the loneliness of our beloved dead City.
Still drag us to that vibrant Veranda
Always intervenes by the firing of Stan-guns,
And wounded many a kind of Guernicas
Or else sprawl out as a junk of Dead Sea Scrolls.
Or even resembles the scattering colors of a thousand of Sonatas
Or like the sacred garden of the Sonalu Flowers
Longing for the illicit Poppies that will surely arise,
But yet through the sudden simmering whim
The poem appears as like as Water Hyacinths.