in this country - eternal summer there blue yarn, yellow apples are bring forth to day so in every days of a calendar but a year isn't. but only the summer is continued... in your, in my heart.
do you remember, this Dublin coast of sea, little velvet streets turn and words, after...
you see - arabic arcades, those which are really here... it smells of an anise or cinnamon in such a stillness, in such a perspective. and brightness is pulsating now.
the arcades come near... and you are going into the mistical centre. you are still, but the breath of wind is embracing you. this is not the wind.
you see - this fountain. the water, which gushes from the middle, is a blue or violet... here, the mother of fiery sand.
the inspiration is so remote, but it suffices to catch the lyre in flight, still burning from songs, for our breath to become connected with the large river.
mother is waiting for us continually. the sounds clear up with every moment. and the fire is checked to a smouldering pile. what frees us - when the falcon comes near?
our breath is extensive in the space of the heart.
when I'm looking throughout the eyes of another I - I'm see a path, colour, wings. is it only a breath, a stone, are emerald drops... who is into another, who will futher on a road - whom I'll meet across a vision...
across the forest of yellow when I'm - as momentary reflection of a mirror.
do you remember the lantern before the moorish court, which shined all day long and night? in this brightness was a smell or music. only words are left by master Ibn Arabi, but they are birds of prey or fish, which are continually in the expanse.
do you remember our conversation about the transfiguration of the rose and bright verses in arabic ornament?
the bell rang at the shores of the cup, light danced in the dusk, crystals of salt at the mouth... and navy-blue wind came. it screened this field of the vision.
the music of the eternal world is resounding here, you open only petals of the rose and you touch the calm of this stream. rise later and go to the mountains. perhaps leading the path above the massive rock and reaching the edges of grey clouds?
my cicerone in the world, my Virgil - a trick is at the Lord,
as colours dimensions are, as a board, till when we drawing near or whence we going away... this spire of the dimensions, a fiery board at ours home... are psychic worlds ending now?
no, yes, my Virgil - inner embers must lead after all.
