simonhlilly

Dream, Dreamer, Dreaming.

The Master’s Garuda boat
Untouched by the turbulence
Of the rocked earth.

The long, deep lake shudders,
Sweeping away the lost
Into other worlds.

Winding avenues of rock
Rising from the shore,
Steps, tunnels, pathways.
The clustered, caved homes of disciples,
Comfortable, apart, sedate.

Shrines of Herukas,
Whispered shadows.
The First Seventy dissolving, dissipating.
Shallow basins and channels guiding
The flow of gore,
The seepage, the transformation
From flesh to food
For the invisible ones.

On carved, curved walls
The lives recorded,
The passage through hell-worlds,
The First Seventy Disciples return
To dissolve in mantra –
Butter lamps floating
On red globules of spent life
Drifting into sinuous darknesses.

Keeping watch, the New.
Taking turns as long as can be withstood,
In the presence of final collapse.

A chance to overcome despair:
To witness the passage of the Elements
Untouched,
To dance clear of the smoke,
The flame of laughter
Fanned
By True Emptiness.

The horror of Reality –
A flower of great beauty,
But no one name.

On the roaring edge,
The Master asks a simple question.

The Sublime awaits.

There is no answer.

———-

(Imagery from a dream last night, satisfyingly Jungian, dark, bright, strange. A mountain lake, an earth tremor sinking boats, a large prowed boat rides the wave, safe. The main story, a Master with disciples living in the steep rock-cut lakeside mountains. The return of the First Seventy Disciples, old men coming back to their Master to die together. The New disciples, set the task to be continually present during the dissolution of the bodies, encaverned, aware, candle light in small shrines. Hard to bear the horror and glory of the implacable transformation, taking turns, Master watching on, silent, slight smile, compassionate, unforgiving. One opportunity, every opportunity, to break through, to break out……)

( the diving, swimming, flying man is from an Iron Age Celtic coin of the Bellovaci tribe)