The dried beauty of the ashen mountains whisper to me
as they pierce the sky with snow capped peaks of desire.
Solid in their stance, golden grasses cling to the fire scorched foothills; Their testament to life a billowing melody in the afterglow of carnage denied.
Meanwhile, fierce winds of change blow icy kisses that freeze the jaws of speech,
paralyze the teeth of need,
and numb the chatter of definition.
These blazing caresses can be recognized as love by those whose hearts have been offered to the alter of death;
Whose minds have succumbed to the release of surrender and whose spirit has entered the land of the unknown.
It is here that we who listen dwell.
Enchanted by the magic.
Engaged with the mystery.
Enraptured by the music of the one.
We are the blessed,
We are the blessing.