If you go quiet, you can hear the birds outside
chirping and singing at the joy of existence.
If you go even quieter, you can feel the thrum of your own cells
chirping and singing at the joy of existence.
If you become still, you can see thunderous beauty
in everything that appears to you.
If you become even more still, you can see that the beauty
is painted upon the canvas of your true face.
It is fine to traffic in opinion and ideology,
just know that you do so while perched upon the nose hair
of a giant grandmother who is older than the sun,
and that the words you speak are woven from mysteries
far more profound than the thoughts they express,
and that the ears which hear them are all made of frogs
who are calling the cosmos into existence
with a sky-shaking, earth-thumping haka.
Behind our disagreements and our arguments,
our inquisitions and our holy wars,
our town square incinerations of heretics and books,
life leans back with an amused smirk and watches
as our stories sputter and splatter to the floor.
Beneath the churning babble about shoulds and shoudn’ts,
a hand beckons from a familiar door
to a place you forgot about
when the grownups dimmed your eyes.
Prior to the oil angels and the bank boys,
the TV talking head machines and the skullface comedians,
the flying robots which rain fire on children,
the rolling war cannons and armageddon ships
and the needletooth manipulators who laugh in lonely halls,
there is a baby made of soil,
and that soil is made out of stardust,
and that stardust is made of the core of your heart,
and your heart is beating
and this whole show is dancing
so that you can have the opportunity
to see it all
and to hear it all
and to take in the beauty
and to leap for the joy
and to weep for the sorrow
and to look deep within
and to make your decision
and take your stand,
once and for all.
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