Too often , do we hear , that : " Follow the Way, the dream of being human, from to be able to straighten the sinuosity of the heart is essential intention . And for that is not necessary not leave, to extricate oneself from the chains of the world " .
This is falsehood !
There is not life , to leave is to avoid the search for the Truth . Chains only exist in oneself .
Rather than being drawn to mirages exterior, protect yourself from your own tricks .
Stop taking refuge behind a fake humility .
Throw yourself into the ocean of providence .
Prefer what you don't know , ignore what you know.
Don't fear the unknown .
The Truth is not veiled .
It's your eyes that wear the veil .
Your eyes , sails that you must open .
The wise man , his , breaks with his habits .
The miracles of the world are terrifying purity , the only way is inner rectitude .
The light at the end of the corridor , the ultimate of the way , a beyond closer to oneself.
Where to go ? Face to face . Listening to others . Walk on a common path . Jeter , as if by chance a look to the sides , just enough not to harm and make the company dance , as in past vigils sort the pebbles in the dish of lentils . Time eternally starting again, under the pen , to the granting of a pouring rain , deploy its panoply open door , on sung hugs remembering drops of water. There were not , clean , writing under the bushel , than the smile that lends itself to saying . There is a narrow passage between the safe interiormethodically built to credenzas of knowledgeand the circle of the children of joy .There are countriesintertwining of achievementswhere the revelation filters .It happens thatthe apple falling from the tree is a marvel .Let's collect the fruit ,wipe it with the clothunbleached canvas ,carry at eye level ,skin texture ,the graceful envelopethe infinite expansion of the germof its extension ,to its fullnessuntil its extinction .In the palace of viscosities of the spirit,pome applebittenallows the pleasure of tasteby burialretrospective juices .The church bell rings .It is four o'clock ,teatimethat the psychedelic cuckoo shells .Let it be known that with good intentions , Health ,with a pinch of judgmentappropriate to the principle of normality .238
If the cart bends and that pieces on the ground disperse the derisory brassieres of the mind .
There would be that look going through absence catechumens in his extinct childhood my mother the order of the dead mother.
There would be pregnant caresses under the canvas that I never believed soft on me .
There would be dry grass covered with crystal frost under the severe burle of a danced crossing of legs .
Looks like affliction tender and tender years of perdition to co-opt carefree passers-by without cries or rest .
My heart is extinguished he saddened the course of time fragile bubbles under the scratch of memory .
The furrows turned cream at the café des solitudes the rotating hemming spoon the reflection of the clouds .
Putting things in place with chairs and tables glasses and cutlery and napkin rings to match .
Living in illusion between pear and lemon prayers and days to come ending in pumpkin slices .
On the go placed on bare ground ran the saxifrage vermin speechless speakers .
Chin confronted the accordions of reason to avoid yours mine positioned on the sidelines .
Sagging figure the glasses at the end of the nose correct spelling mistakes our little passing hands .
Short-scale segmented vertical horses last lift of a smile through the open window . Spell straight out with a tender apostrophe glittery lips froze the sound of churches . Falsely monopolized in a dumpster of manure the body-to-body of thinking bodies desperate embraces .
Slipped under the antlers autumn mushrooms to dig the trenches of a war from which no one returns .
The thread of the sweater lengthens the needles pass then iron the fragile fingers exposes itself without me intervening . face down let's be the rolling pebbles of the torrent under the foliage of a becalmed willow by what will be said of prosopopeia .
My feather without the callus of yesteryear is heard to the east dry blows on the skin of solicitudes the small of the back in enjoyment his hour and then mine all things combined rebelling my beautiful in the offering of free-rider to no longer hear the barbed wire screeching under grapeshot .
His birdcage under his elbowand the rump in Lent a horse passes the horsewoman with the ponytail .The donkey braysthe sheep are bleatinga sound of sheet metal padlock the spaceI callat the crossroadsscents of wet grassthe moonrise .without taking the timeskinny appendagesjointo the lifts of balled woola quarter lowerwings in working order .Inquirefinely choppedduskin the weary fall of the daybitter feverthan a finger of honeyraisestender applicationof the flutewith happy noteschildren's laughter .236
