There is a field out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing. I’ll meet you there.~ Rumi
As the silver clouds which are swirling and running an errand across the flickering horizons augur auspiciously, I know you’re awaiting my arrival in the temple sited by the babbling river. Perched on the marble floor, I see you aflame like camphor and I can catch the warmth during the freezing winter mornings. And even now the scented smoke of incense is scribbled in sombre and sedate gloamings, as soft as the grazing of your lips. Ever so lightly. And it claims its eternal tenancy, ever so compellingly.
The path ahead is slippery and precarious and the impending danger looms on the horizon. Underneath the searing blaze of the sun, these trees will guide me through the way, lending their bountiful shadows without any trace of ostentation. I will tryst you where all cascading brooks coalesce and the brisk water becomes fiercer crashing and puddling the rocky banks and making the pebbles bound and twirl in an incomprehensible precision. Where the spectacular fall feels fated and inevitable…
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