The Dedication is to the Graciousness of the Almighty Creator who blessed us with so many blesses like the Eternal Maternity and the Souls sharing and caring for the salvation of all the beings
Ma (my mother) was severely injured on 19.03.2009, Thursday (12:30-1:30 pm), with something blunt, on her face (as the spots can be located even after 10 days of her miraculous recovery from that fatal injury). Though I was told that it happened ‘through faltering while shopping’ at Kallyanpur Natun bazar, Dhaka (she lived in a rented home at the second floor of House no.-74/1/B, Block – D, Road – 6, Kallyanpur Natun Bazar). At that time none of the family members were present at home as all of them, including me, were at their respective work-places. Around 1:30 I heard the bad news and telephoned the home-worker who told me that it happened within the home (at around 2:30 when I reached home, I found the 15′-15′ front room mostly covered with a thick layer of blood and it was difficult even for me to recognize her on that moment, she was that much defaced). Consequentially, becoming weaker, she left us on 11.07.2011. Just days prior to that day, Ethica (my younger brother’s baby girl) left us, on 30.06.2011, suffering with meningitis. Let this note be recorded for present and future purposes of anything related to the facts described above.
Christmas Stars Jog-Karta Oum-1 by Shv.
For other parts, you are cordially invited to visit http://shuvogronthona.blog.com AND For Bangla (Bengali) Parts, you are cordially invited to visit http://www.somewhereinblog.net/blog/ShuvoGrontho2008 or you may send email requesting Bangla (Bengali) Parts.
Prelude of the presenter and copyright owner of the Book-set printed and published in February, 2008, the Book Covers of which is displayed above
He came and gave some of the art-works for preserving and serving to the extent possible. He spoke, as simple like anyone, about some of the inclinations about those art-labours, and about the dedication line. Close to those inclinations the preparations were done to serve them in a frame before you. And the way all these grew, you knew too, as that’s nothing new to be known by few.
May this bilingual presentation bridge the positive souls and minds, of different landscapes of the very same earth, that find anywhere in the life-flow the promises and ties to grow and let others grow.
The Parabola and The Mundane Songs were inclined to be spread through the book like parts of the main canvas. and The Monadics, Uni-Meditation, to be in booklet form. He revived some of the Drvidian drawings of collective-meditation or Mandala-chitra (contained in Uni-Meditation) and requested all to search for the others, samples of that collection were also inclined to be presented in booklets. There are episodes or parts in Bangla which were kept as it were for the sake of serving and preserving the art-works in their original form. All the art works of this Art-collection have been served in the original communicative languages of their formation and none of them are translated or transformed from themselves or from any other art-works so far it is known to the original Art-labourer/writer and to the presenter of this collection. So, to taste all the art-works of this book, the readers have to possess adequate fluency in both Bangla and English or may require to take assistance of authentic literary-translators, until the writer himself has translated them. Concerning aesthetic value of these art-labours, we like to quote from one of the statements of the Art-labourer/writer of this book– “Art-works are but the spectrum of the reality of the distinguish time-space-force playing through the prism of the Art-labourer/writer. So Art-labourer/writer deserves very minimum of the appreciations or criticisms for the art-work, though the labour and/or care for the art-labour or creativity is not beyond appreciations or criticisms. In fact it’s merely a way of sharing, like that of a farmer sharing his/her labour of producing grains for others as well.” All the literary and other types of art-labours came from one person whose intended name-sign letters are printed as Shv. He thinks that names are but merely the way of indication of a being, so he preferred the art-labours to be known in that way. His fingerprints are printed in the book for the sake of preventing the art-labours from any type of illegal or misrepresented claim or use. Purchasing this collection, you gain only the right to collect and taste the art-labours as they are. This gives you no right of reproduction of any kind other than for academic and humanitarian purposes. Persons interested for any other types of use or reproduction are requested to strictly comply with the Copyrights Laws and are advised to contact with the copyright-holder at the specified contact.
In relation to the lots of spelling and grammatical errors, more specifically in The Parabolas, we apologize and assure you that very soon there will be a comparatively error-free version for your collection. And here we like to recall the theorems “In this world full of errors nothing but the Creator alone is above the limitations of errors” and that, “NIHIL SIMUL INVENTUM EST ET PERFECTUM”.
Anyway, this collection is presented for the consideration, of the minds who remind and keep in mind, that the alternative to reading and writing is to read and write. O yes, one more personal message for all concerned – probably one international law requiring any film or document or drawing. concerning the persons or beliefs of reverence to any community, to be approved by the proper authority of that community, would suffice to close the door of hell that is causing many losses through conflicts arising out of religious or other types of beliefs.
The contents of this blog was printed in February, 2008 and has been placed online since then. Those earlier versions can be found at http://shuvogrontho.informe.com
As to any sort of interest including those of re-publication or for the purpose of collecting the Bangla parts or for collecting the drawings on joint-meditation, you are cordially requested to please contact at -
email@example.com – Short messages/e-mails up to 40 characters only.
THE BOOK STARTS WITH
THIS VERSE FROM THE HOLY Al-Qur’an
“Say: Allah is the One and Only everywhere;
Allah, the Eternal, the Absolute; ………”
Al-Qur’an, 112.001-2 [Al-Ikhlas (Sincerity)]
The sun sets to set away – it’s the way days give way to the nights, it’s the way always all through the ways that the darks mingle up with the lights. The lonely kite on its end-day flight is searching for – a search for something to grip either-or. See the trees, see the clouds, sees the sky and sees the boy without toy and whose eyes rise like ever high. Sees the boy, and he sees the trees and the clouds, the flights of the kites and the sky that takes so high to wash off the pains of gains of a lonely sigh of the fatherless child growing up with his mother’s care, though he himself is not much shared by others, but by his mother, he learns to share. Running here and there the child went not wild though he went to wilds that harness the harshness of life into a light so soft and mild. From the wild, the tiny child learns too how to wash off the mundane pains and the lonely sighs. The tiny child’s mind and eyes browse through the colours of life and through the skies, the trees and clouds and the colours of the sun do the things that otherwise would have been never done. The trees and clouds, sun-rays and the skies tell him an endless tale of life free from the undue mundane lies. The green leaves, hasty clouds and the playing sunrays all over the sky, binds up the tiny mind and mother-earth with the unseen forever-tie. The tiny mind gets the best ways to find the life as life in a time and space that seems to him not so kind. The sun sets away far a way to bear in mind – the tiny boy and the praising calmness of his sight that the sun leaves behind.
The mundane charm of the warmth of a calm working Mom at the end of the day when the sunrays begin to blur, comes to her the time to pray for some from an endless sum of the eternal some. Mom, O! Mom, tired of works, but ever so calm, Mom, O! Mom, singing to her kids the holy verses and some of the psalms. Mom! a Mom, likened by the kids like the moonlit nights and the stars that blur off with the firsts of daylights. Mom, the Mom, the heavenly grace that the kids brought with them from the heaven, the grace without which the life could not be thought. Mom, a Mom, who sums up some and many of the some of life-sums. Mom, the Mom, tired of works but even then too calm. Mom, the Mom, who breeds the creed, feeds and leads them to the holy some. Mom, the Mom, breeds the kids – so need to feed them up – so works so long. Mom, the Mom, lead the creeds, seed them up, to sing the life’s lovely song. Mom, the Mom, the working Mom, the warmth of love and the kids’ innocence-charms at the end of the day give her the power to forgive and to give the best mundane things to pray to have in the life all the ways. Mom, the Mom, the working Mom, tired but calm at the end of a workful day, does not sway anyway to lead her kids in the moves through the life’s days of the busy ways.
Mom, the Mom, now old and aged and caged in two tiny rooms, waits for the breeze to bridge the memories’ chime that faded with time. Faded ? Or graded with the waves that pave the phases of faces in mundane graces ? The Mom’s stone-faced face graces the traces of mundane graces. “Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! The eternal face, Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! The Creator’s best mundane grace. Mom, O! Mom, O! the Mom! Closing the eyes, the face I can see. Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! Creator’s best gift only for me.” The children-rhyme with the best chime of time that belongs to none but all who can feel and still can hear the childhood call. The children’s rhymes with sublime-chimes’ wave through times -“Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! The eternal face, Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! The Creator’s best mundane grace. Mom, O! Mom, O! the Mom! Closing the eyes, the face can see all. Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! Creator’s best gift for us all.”
The sun sets to set away – it’s the way days give way to the nights, it’s the way always all through the ways that the darks mingle up with the lights. The lonely kite on its end-day flight is searching for – a search for something to grip either-or. See the trees, see the clouds, sees the sky and sees the boy whose eyes rise and live ever high. Rise the eyes through the skies to see beyond and within – the shall, will, are, is, am and been.
“……..Fear Allah, and hearken not to the unbelievers and the hypocrites; verily Allah is full of knowledge and wisdom. But follow that which comes to you by inspiration from your Creator: because Allah is well-acquainted with all that you do…..” Sura Al Ahzab or The Confedarates , The Holy Al-Qur’an
Sky, O Sky , O holy Sky , tell to all the root-cause of all the pains and sighs that comes but was not seen by the eyes of the child who was mild with the love of the mother-soul of the eternal goal to breed the seed of the creed to a holy goal of sharing and caring for all as a whole, in spite of the brutal facts and acts she had to face through out the life and the toll she had to pay in many ways of the nights and days of the darks that spark to jerk and shake not to remake but to break the real-form and to deform the real values and norms of the creed to proceed to the positive goal which confirms that the creed as a whole is but one to breed the seeds bound by the needs crust that must be broken for the seed to be free and to become the tree of blooming-spree to grow and flow the flowers of growers who are the pure souls of the best of the mundane-goals that don’t want to fight but work for light of the souls to work through the creative goals and to partake in the life that the Holy Soul wanted to make where nobody take more than that they may make out of work which don’t spark or jerk the pure souls neither shake to deform the pure souls’ real form to turn into an evil or a sear soul deviated from the goal that was implanted by the Holy Soul within the pure souls to reach the goals of the fusion of the creation that never ends but may bend to mend the wounds of the rounds of bounds of the negative force that try to endorse the evil trends by the bends of the sparks and jerks to shake not to remake but to break the real-form and to deform the real values and norms of the creed to proceed to the positive goal that was implanted within the pure souls.
Sky, O Sky, O holy Sky, tell to all the root-cause of all the pains and sighs that comes out of the causes that see not the eyes of the child who was mild with the love of the mother-soul of the eternal goal to breed the seed of the creed to a holy goal of sharing and caring for all as a whole. Sky, O Sky, O holy Sky, tell the pure souls of goals not to sigh or cry but to unite through out the sites of seen and unseen lights and to try to locate and placate the broken souls to not allow any more sear-souls to derail from the real humane-mundane-goals. Sky, O Sky, O holy Sky, tell the pure souls of goals not to sigh or cry but to unite through out the sights and sites and to try to ignite the holy lights of the holy days and nights within the evil souls derailed from the real mundane- humane-goals.
“I hear this morning making a call -
We salute the dignified way to be united to rise,
to preserve and to be just like the truth that never fall.
Like ever, the nation is one and together, WE ALL.”
- Princess Justicia and her countrymen.
The calmness of the palms of the Mother who sought them into being and brought them up in the rings of things and beings to grow and let others grow as human beings working to trace the grace for the race of the races and thereby to place the lights of the sights that were endowed by the One who has ordained to bow before none but only before that One who has created and seated the things into being and had formed the rings of the things and beings that together forms the universe being and becoming through and by the things and beings waiting for the finest of the parabola rings that might free the things and beings from the pains of the chains that give not the gains to the forms nor develop the norms of the forms to a higher phase of the cosmic nights and days mingled with the rays of the darks and lights that may or may not be seen by all the sights of the lights and darks to receive and perceive the lights and darks that spark through and to the darkest sparks of the darks when they can not be regained to do the due that they were ordained to be done by the holiest One who is the none someone and the One who is many in One who created everyone and every one of the things forming the rings of the things and beings being and becoming now and then every when since the eve of the time when was formed the first of the chimes of the sublimes of the existence and non-existence that were destined for the earliest forms of the norms that could make the storms of the things and beings form the non-being to the rings of the things and beings and then may turn again to the chain of norms that deform the forms to reform or not to form in those forms following the same norms that were normed within the earliest norm of the forms to reform or to deform those unable to reform them out of the darkest sparks they are carrying in and thereby carrying in the sparks into the rings of the beings and things.
Mother who shared and taught to share with all of the races of the holy creeds of the holy seed every bit of the graces for the races to preserve the seeds of the creeds passing through the chains of the needs that are but part of the norms of the forms being and becoming to and from the forms and norms that they are made of or for the norms and forms of the storms of the cosmic flow that grows and flows through and to the high and lows of the sky where nothing is high or low and neither slow but to shape their being into becoming to bring in the ever most perfect ring of the timely chime of sblime that they use to sing since the eve of the time they were into the world of the things and beings and which were ordained and were coded for the doors of the source-codes of the holiest codes to form the best of the norms to form and to reform the forms and norms whenever they may have been deformed by the darkests of the sparks that bites and hurts the other forms or norms due to their inborn defect of the norms to form themselves for reaching the goals by playing the roles that they were ordained to play since the first ray before the rounds of sounds could be found in the womb of time that made the first of its chimes to load the source-codes that are ordained by the One who is for all again for none who deforms the norms of the forms or norms that were formed and were set as the source-code of the core of mores and force before the first storm of the beings to form the rings of things and beings to bring in the seeds to breed the creed of the being with the most proper pace to grow and let others grow and flow through the stream of the things and beings that are becoming for the coming times to pass through and to reach up to the goals they are destined as forms or to be deformed by the forces of the deformed norms who force other to be deformed and to spark out their inborne forces through the courses of mal-forces that were not designed in the discourses of the source-codes of the norms to form and to reform the things and beings to develop themselves and all to a newer phase to face the newer plane of becoming to be a part of the coming time to remain together even in that plane and to proceed more to a newer time and to ensure the eternal knot of the dots and thoughts and spots of time that to be passed by them and to reach the newer plane of the sublime passing through the blooming time that is also being and becoming now and then to and from many when of the time raining the gains to get rid of the undue chains and pains that deforms the norms and forms of all the forms or norms existing in the world of the beings or non-beings that are also part of the rings of things and beings that came into being since the eve of the time and are developing to and from the newer phases of the pace of the race of the creeds to preserve to grow and flow the seeds and to breed the seeds of creeds to trace and face the needs to grow and flow through the courses of the time and to carry the source-codes’ chimes to the newer phase of sublime and forms that bring out and preserve the forms and norms to grow and flow and to follow the destined chain of the source-codes to bring in the best of the things and beings out of their forms and to preserve and bear in the norms that were ordained for their creed to breed and seed the creed and, to the newer phase, to sow and grow and flow and to contain the seeds to a newer plane of sublime and thereby to maintain the chain of being and becoming of the things to ensure that the best of the things are preserved and grown up to the next cosmic-plane to ensure the creative chain of the things of being and becoming as per the earliest of the ordained source-codes and to maintain pace as per the newer cosmic-planes to sustain and contain the gains through the pains and chains as may be found in the nature of the Mother mundane.
“Naibā stree Nā pumaneshnā choibaŷong nopunshākh
Jod Jochchhorirmadolte tēn tēn sā rakhsnyatē.” – Shetashwatar Upanishad, 5/10
[And this spirit of life is of neither sex, nor is either or other sex,
Due to the works, having distinguished figures, gains the gains and pains therewith.]
The Conch-shell rang the bell to tell the tale of millions years of tales that tell about gains of love and pains of fears. The Conch-shell spheres the spirals in and out but not to bend the spiral that rounds in many but to be one at the end. Conch-shell ! Tell the tales of the brightest way to the slightest ray to carry in the rays that rise the way that for ever been in the waves and the dots that the sights seldom slight out through the flights of lights. Conch-shell ! Tell the tale of millions mundane-years after years of love, gains and pains bound by the ropes of hopes, and torn by the fierce spears of fears and tears. Conch-shell ! spiral in and out but never bend but mend the millions rounds of bounds to be one at the end.
Conch-shell, tell the tale of the bluest sky – the sea of lights flying high, the light-sea that the eyes never see though they too fly in that sky which is azurite in spite of its own belonging-less-ness. The sky that reminds the “I” about the ways the things came into beings out of nothingness. The sky that plays the rays to play the plays of the conch-shell’s many-one ring that says the ways how the first-most things came into being. Conch-shell, tell the tales of seas, rivers and streams that stream in and out of all in their mundane streams of dreams that dream to be in the dreams of the sublime light’s streams to bright up the flights of the highest sights.
Conch-shell – the tale that’s forever to tell. Not so bright and not so dim. Nor like stream or a dream. Not so loud nor so low, but enough to flow for ever to grow on the window-panes or in the dens with the senses of the thinnest lenses of hence and thence. Not so low nor so high, but enough to fly in an endless sky of beings to bring in the rings that spiral in and out but never bend to mend many ways’ round that to be found as one at the end. Conch-shell, tell the tale that’s yet to tell – the tale that’s too old again so new, the tale that tells of the things that all do to tell the tales that are in them, us and you.
Conch-shell, tell the tale of the greenest leaves that live through the ages of beliefs that relieve none yet do live and believe in the beliefs that leave none and relieve all to relive. Tell the tales that forever tell the sweetest chimes of the times that make the times’ timeless rhymes in sublimes. Tell the tale that never fell in any mundane facts or dreams, but flows in all like a water-fall, river or stream. Tell the tale that tells the tales of the tales that wave low and high like the sea or the sky, or, like the sky or the sea pave the waves and dots of the brightest spots of the sky’s flights all through the sea that very few may see. Conch-shell, tell the tale that tells the tales of the ways we may and should do the things that are yet to do, tale that tells the tale of being and becoming of them, us and you. Tell the tales to bring the things to the beings’ rings that spiral within and without in and out but never bend or mend the many-way-round that’s to be found to be but one at an endless end to which all tends to bend.
Conch-shell, tell the tale that never fell, tell them the Conch-shell-tale that’s for all for ever to tell.
Óbwn ‡e‡ib †eivwb m¤§š—xÕa Kz`vPbs,
A‡e‡ib P m¤§wš— Gm a‡¤§v mbš—‡bv|Ó – a¤§c`, hgKeM©-5
[kÎ“Zvi Øviv kÎ“Zv KL‡bv cÖkwgZ nq bv, kÎ“nxYZvi Øviv kÎ“Zv cÖkwgZ nq| RM‡Z BnvB mbvZb ag© ev g~jbxwZ|]
See the ice-sea, dark in the midst of snowstorms full of mist loud crowd of large ice-islands stretching their chilling hands in the forms of storms of drowsy mist sweeping north-south-west and east. The way they sway and the way they grow and flow so slow are but the ways yet to know. Know the self but through the One, who is none but many in one. Bygone ways and bygone flows in the highs and lows of the glows that come out of shiny leaves and flow on through the knots of those who believe that they live to relieve, leave and relive.
See the twilight of starlights – the flights they had through endless sites that the mundane sights seldom see, sites where you find nothing though that cannot be. See the starlights being born in and around that ‘nothingness’ with in and out with the ins and outs. See the time to take birth and to walk about the paces of spaces that had never been but to take birth from the time within. See the races of paces that made spaces. See spaces that pace the race and see the faces of time through the phases of times. Read the rhymes of times of an endless chime where times grows out of the time that had never been, to contain in, without time from within the time flows in the time that grows without the space-race of the pace in or out.
See the time breeze that bridges spaces so far from where they’d be or where they are. See time-waves in the timeless sea that paves the chimes of times for us, them, you and me. See the stars taking birth in their mother times’ wombs, and see the non-space from where the space blooms. See the time’s chimes that forever sing in and about the spaces’ parabola ring. See the time-doors that pass through the mores of the Four of force. See the time-light that shine bright to help us see it through the races and paces of places that you seldom see. See the time-waves in a timeless sea paving the time for us, them, you, s/he and me.
“Do not do that unto others that you expect not from others to be done to you.” – Old Testament.
The granite sky has showered for long, and yet to shower for some more hours. The wind streams in the room through windows. On the other side of the window, the gainful paddy swaying with its grains and winds. Abreast into the waters that came down from the northern hills, the mountain – ‘where lives the god of rain’, the paddy gainful of its grains dance in the rains. The greens of shades on the blades of the bunch full of grains gaining again the grains of rains. The charming smile of the green that had, have and shall have been in the waves of time, playing with the rains painless chimes through on the waves to let wind pave its ways coming from far a way far away from the river-mouth and further south where no bounds of land can be found and the sea hues the views of blues around. Here are the winds, here they are, far from the sea of the blues’ hues near and far, here they are, playing with the tenderness of the green, here they are, where they had-have and shall have been.
The time open itself up and closes in the winds, rains and greens. The time pace the space with the phase of grace that place the race without trace. The time closes out, the time opens up again in, as it had, have and shall have been in the flows within out and in and mingles with the wind, rain and green. The wind flows out, the wind comes in and mingles with the time-rain and green. The rain rains out and rains in the graceful scenes that the time contained in the mind growing out of the minds that grows within, the green flows out and in the greens blowing in the green winds in the minds’ mindful scenes. The time opens up and the time closes in mingling the jingles of rains grains, winds and green of the life growing in and out without and within the minds, winds, times, chimes, rains, grains and greens.
No friends, no family, no foes or kin – with him, to share these gains of the rains and grains – gains that came with a mundane rain. The windows blow in the smell of the rain that seldom tell its own gainful mundane tale. He watches the course of a mundane discourse. He goes through the doors without force through the doors of force and the doors of mores of doors to make the blows with winds and glows with the greens that chimes with times to pay time in the rhymes that he gains through the rains and grains far a way far away from the chains and pains. He watches the course of a mundane discourse. He faces the grace without trace and binds the minds with the kinds that he finds. The life too binds out and in from within the minds, winds, times, chimes, rains, grains, and green. The life is in and out without within, as all had, have and shall have been in the minds, winds, times, chimes, rains, grains, and green.
“Virtus, repulsae nescia sordidae # Intaminatis fulget honoribus.
Nec sumit, ant point secures # Arbitrio popularis aurae. ”
Horace, od., iii, 2, 17
[Virtue, repudiating all base repulse, shines in taintless honours, nor takes nor leaves dignities at the mere will of the vulgar.]
Sounds of bounds ground around him for the theme for the rounds to be found abound for the crowneds that surround the sounds in the bounds of grounds but never round the sounds that come around to be found to be good and of height albeit sometimes without chimes and may seem to be crude but not shrewd in the theme that may deem all to share and flair in the darks the sparks of lights not to fights but to enbright the lights of sights to bring the rights of mights of the lights found not by sights but insights and by the lights that gourd the rites of the rights that do not fight but enlight all the lights altogether for all to gather in this mundane-home, as not to Rome but to home all the roads roam around for the bounds that the leaves of beliefs leave for us – we the mass that seldom pass through the doors of mores that the forces course on us and tell to pass the tails of the tales that none do know but ever grow for the mass not to pass through the doors of mores and to reach the cores of the doors of mores deciding passes through impasses by those who seldom passes the test of mores of the doors that they impose and show no respects for the suspects to self-prove or to improve the move of bounds that round beyond doubt from without without sights of rights but with those of rites that fail to bright up the light of mights of rights that care for either or that care for and do share the flairs that flair in the sparks out of darks of sights not to fight but to invite the lights of sights to bring in and sing the mights of rights of the sights and rights not bound in sites but insights and through the sights guarding the rites of the rights that do not fight but flight all the lights altogether for all to gather in this mundane-home, and not to roam around Rome but to and from the home found around for the rounds.
Grounds of sounds found the rounds where to grow and so to sow the row to care and/or share for the flairs to spark the darks of sparks of the lights that do not fight but do bright the rights of lights to bring the rights of rites of the sights bound in insights but not in sites and by the sights that guard the rites of the rights that do not fight but invite all the lights for all to gather altogether in the mundane-home, as, not to Rome but to home all the roads roam around for the bounds.
“Non est, ut putas, virtus…..
Timere vitam; sed malis ingentibus
Obstare, nec se vertere, ac recto doure.” – Seneca, Phoen., i, 190
[…….. it is no virtue to fear to live; virtue consists in withstanding great evils, and not in retiring and shrinking from them.]
Share and care for the flairs that dark the sparks of lights not to fight but to invite the kites of lights to bring and sing the rights of mights to the sights not found in lights but in insights and in the sights that guard the rites of rights not to fight but to bright all the lights altogether for all to gather in this mundane-home, and not to roam around Rome but to and from the home found abound for the rounds.
Care to share for the flairs that spark the darks of lights not to fight but to ignite the lights of sights to ring the lights of rights of the sights not bound in sights but in insights and in the sites that guard the rites of rights that do not fight but to bright all the lights altogether for all to gather in this mundane-home, and not to roam around Rome but to and from the home found around for the grounds of rounds.
Share to care for the flairs that jerk the sparks of lights not to fight but to invite the sights of lights to bring the mights of rights of the sights not bound in lights but in insights and in the sights that gourd the rites of rights that do not fight but do bright all the lights altogether for all to gather in this mundane-home, not to roam around Rome but to and from the home found around of the rounds of grounds.
Share to care for the darks that sparks in/from the lights not to fight but to invite the sights of rights to bring the sights of mights of the lights not bound in sites but in insights and in the sights that guard the rites of rights that seldom fight but to bright all the lights altogether for all to gather in their mundane-home, but not to roam around Rome but to and from the home found around for the rounds of sounds.
Share and care for the sparks that dark in/from the lights not to fight but to invite the knights of lights to bring the lights of sights of the rights not bound in lights but insights and in the sites that guard the rites of rights that rarely fight but to bright all the lights altogether for all to gather in the mundane-home, though not to roam around Rome but to and from the home found around the rounds.
Rounds of sounds found the grounds where to sow and to grow and flow the rows to care and share to flair the darks to sparks of lights not to fight but to alight the lights of sights to end the fights for rights of the sights not bound in sites or rites but by insights and in the sights that guard the rights of rites not to fight but to delight all the lights together for all to gather altogether in this mundane-home, as, not to Rome but to home all the roads roam around for the grounds.
“Quum veritatem, qua liberator, inquirat : Credaturei expedire, quod fallitur.” Saint Augustine, City of God, iv. 31
[Seeing that he enquires into the truth so that he may be made free, it is thought fit he would be deceieved.]
Then they came without step-sounds, they came through the rounds of bounds, they came through the boundless grounds breaking all through the bounds of rounds. They came without any step-sounds, they came the way they always did – the way that is never reached by the rewards of greed or bid – the way that shines above all the ways like always, the way that is never reached by mass-compliance, fashion or craze. They came through the steppe’s sounds where grounds end but at sky-rounds. They rounded with them millions grounds that the mundane-rounds rarely found. They came without any bounds of sounds, they came the way they always did – the way that reigns and rains above all the ways as always. They brought with them the best of the seeds yet to breed. They came along a long long way through the way that no one leads, they came through a long journey where none eats or drinks but feeds – the way that gains about many a ways like always without bids. They came without any foot-prints, nor may anyone find their step-sounds, but through the steppe’s sounds they came to bring in the boundless grounds.
They came through the days and they came through the mundane-nights – bringing with them the rays and darks mingled with the shades of lights to bright up for the sights’ lights that bright up the brightest flights of the rights to light up the sites when darkness darkens sights. They came through the lights and shades of the brightest mundane lights and darks’ shades, they came with the rightful mights to lighten up the sights of all that is made. They came to lighten up without any jerks or sparks. They came to the rightmost places in the rightmost times. They rang no bell but sang the life’s sweetest chimes. They came without any step-sounds though they came through the steppe grounds. They came through the steppes’ sounds and bound the bounds of the groundless rounds. They came the way they will, do and did – the way that is never reached by the rewards of bids or greed’s grids, the way that like ever breed the best of the seeds of the creeds. They seed along a long long way that they ground in the boundless grounds of the soundless rounds that found in themselves roundless bounds.
They came through the lights and shades of the brightest mundane darks and lights, they came with the rightful mights to lighten up all that is made, they came to lighten up without any jerks or sparks. They came through the steppe grounds without any step-sounds. They came to the rightmost places in the rightmost times. They rang no bell but sang the tale of the life’s sweetest chimes. And in the times they sang at times to the times the best mundane hymns through the door of “the Four” of the force and through the force of the mores. In the crowd but not aloud, washing off the pains of chains, they reigned the rains of the gains that is for every now and then.
“When they came, in what name, to play their parts in the eternal game, in which spots ?” question lots. They may say or may not say, who are they, where, when or for what not they are they. I too do not say, but, by the way, the ways I see thy came. All the way I dissent anyway to frame them by giving name. But all way long all along I see them in the rightmost places in the rightmost times – they ring no bell but sing the tale of the life’s sweetest chimes. All way long and for far long along I see them singing amongst the endless mundane songs –
“So long you care for others too,
What you do are not wrongs.”
“Quod beatum aeternumque sit, id nec habere negotii quidquam, nec exhibere,alteri ……” Cicero, De Nat., Deor, i.17
[What is blessed and eternal, has neither any business itself nor gives any to other.]
Tiny cloud is not proud of the gains that it rains through the ways but never sways to bade the rays that never fade to its shades of the grades of the blades of lights in the nights of mights without sights of the knights who bright the lights of the sights that bring in the singing birds and “the Third” of the four to open the doors on the shores of the sea of sights of rights to bring in flights of the singing lights to fly high in the sky where glow the lights in their flows and the flights mingle in the song they sing for the days yet to come sometimes in gruesome times without chimes of sublimes and that’s why try to fly high in the sky to grow in and out within and without the pledges of ages to row, flow and grow through the flows that flow through the shapes of grapes of minds in the kinds of their own that are grown by the toils out of soils of the finest grains of the brains that neither pain nor enchain the flowers and growers to bring in the songs to sing to ring in the flow to grow that which grows and grows to flow the flows that never low in the sights for sites or mights without rights but bring in the singing lights that never fight but for saving eternal rights growing forever and ever through the flowing lights of sublime sense of immense time-paradigms of the timely chimes of the time that shrouds the crowds of the proudest prouds and knows that the tiny cloud is never proud of the rains that it gains or of the gains that it rains, though it may shine in the shades of “the Nine of the shrine” to know the ways as some may say this-that way to sway the ways to grow in the growing flows for bringing in the singing lights singing in and around the shrine of “the Nine of the shrine” –
“What is mine, in this shrine ?
Where we believe to live !
Believe ! We live to leave and relieve to relive.”
The man in the wilderness asked of me
“How many strawberries grow in the sea ?”
I answered him as I thought it good,
“As many red herrings grow in the wood !”
– English Nursery Rhymes of Bignold.
Parabola – 9.
Tiny cloud is not proud for raining rains, nor is it in itself split out of chains of pains that give no gains or the shiny days, always and all the ways tiny cloud moves on and on through the nights and the days – not nights nor days known to us and to you, not the nights or the days of mundane-due, nor days or nights of orchid-dew, but the nights and the days of tags and flags of endless time that seem to everlast gently waving on the time-ship’s mast – days of sights through nights of days in the ways the clouds may find cloudly days and nights of some other kinds of shades of some other lights that brighten up the ways even of the tiny cloud on the mundane flight – lights of sea that we may not see and the lights of green of places over which s/he had been, sea of lights yet to see in the seas seen/unseen by the mundane sights and the sparkling lights of sparking darks that are on and on on the flights through the cosmic night – carrying in all the lights of the way, tiny cloud softly makes the ways through endless sights and lights.
Tiny cloud is not proud for chaining pains, nor is it in itself split out to gain the rains or to rain in gains of rains that rain down the gains of grains and wash off the pains of rains to bring down to earth the mundane ways of softening up mundane nights and days, through its ways tiny cloud flights the lights on ways and reads the much s/he may read the news and views of muses as may be found on ground in morning-evening dues listed on the news of orchid dews and through the cues it makes its flights through nights, yet not proud, tiny cloud passes through stars with the shiny verse of a tiny song, that s/he brings but never sings out to make others sing, the song of the never-proud tiny cloud with the chime of verse of timeless timely songs –
“So long you care for others too, what you do, are not wrongs.”
“Liquidas, purique simillimus amni ……..”
[Liquid and like a crystal stream ….] - Horace, Epist., ii. 2.120
Parabola – 10.
Tiny cloud is not proud of the way on the way but never sways, basing on what others may or may not say through the way, though listens to all but to share as they may say to care in their ways, and all the ways tiny cloud passes through the crowd of clouds – some of them singing soft, some talking/smiling mild, some wild and loud – tiny cloud passes through crowds of clouds and through the doors of times it carries in its own mundane chimes and verses of times through the clouds and stars tiny cloud makes its way but never sways on the way though makes its flights of heights to sing in and bring the lights that shine bright to alight the mundane sights through sightless nights of mites of sites and sites of mites and to highlight the mights of rights to see and to let others see the wrongs and rights of the darks and of the lights.
Tiny cloud, the shiny cloud is humble, meek and thin enough to grow from within – from with in or out ? none may say without doubt about the tiny cloud’s what-when-where about – in or out, tiny cloud cares not about that sort of cohort things but brings in the songs to sing in or out without or about the tiny clouds and their chime-glows through time-flows to grow and flow to bring in and sing the songs of gains raining rain of the rains of gains washing off the pains of chains and chains of pains – the songs of rains – the jingles to mingle the clouds seeing, listening, whispering, talking or singing mild, soft, loud or wild – altogether to gather all together and to say –“Small or tall, let us all, be not proud and listen to the Tiny Cloud for the song that s/he brings and sings within. Small and tall, let us all, be not proud and sing with the Tiny Cloud bringing in the tiny shiny song-
“So long you care for others too, what you do may not go wrong.
So long you are sure of others caring for all and you too, don’t think ’em wrong.”
“Perfecto non deum, quem non possunt, sed semet ipsos pro illo cogitantes. Non illum, sed seipos, non illi, sed sibi comparant.”
Saint Augustine, City of God, xii. 15
[Certainly they do not imagine God, whom they can not imagine; but they imagine themselves in his stead : they do not compare him, but themselves, not to him, but to themselves.]
Talks that shock and the talks that rock, talks that chalk and talks that block the talks that talk of talks to shock and rock that which do not preach or teach but chalk and block the talks for the lights of enlightening sights of rightful mights that ever bright to end the blights that slight and blight the growths of the rightmost sights and oaths of lights that never fight but for the rightful rights of the lights and sights that see through the nights of the mundane sights and sow in to grow in and to flow in the ins and outs of the outmost out to flower out the flowers and growers of the eternal lights of sights’ rights and mights through the sites that ignite the sparks of thoughts to the lots of spots that are trying to grow in the flow of lights that grow the flow through the highs and lows of the glows in the mundane skies that fly so high not to sigh or shy to face the race of races for graces to believe in to leave traces of the times and places that embrace out and in that had been and will ever be in the sea of lights that you seldom see in the spree to flower the flows that never slow to sway on its way to the eternal light that forever bright to give to the mundane flights the mights they may need to feed and lead a way free of greed – the lights, bytes and sights, rights, mights and sites and even some bites of bights.
Talks that shock and chalk the rocks that block the talks for thought-rays that never sway on their ways to bring in the days of the singing lights that fight the sparks of darks by engaging the gazing skylarks who spark the days to come in through the mundane songs they use to sing through the rings of times of the sublime chimes that bring in the singing rhymes and hymns that may for ever be in the waves that pave the flights of the sea of lights that we seldom see in the spree of the growers to grow the things that bring the things to grow and flow the growers and flowers of humane-lights that never fight but for the utmost lights of the rightmost sights of the rights and flow in and out without doubt the glows that flow and grow through the rows to row the seeds to sow in the flows of flowers and growers of chimes of times that never end neither bend down before the matters’ forces that enforce the courses that matters to matters that scatter through the earth the paths to the shiny lawns of the mundane dawns of the bygone dragons that drag on triogon, quadragon, pentagon, hexagon, octagon, decagon, centigon and so on to the shapes of the grapes of thoughts that grow in lots of spots and blot in the lot of lots of the spots thriving to grow out the flow of the flowers of growers of the things that bring the times to sing the timely chimes of sublime songs that forever shine –
“What’s not mine, in this shrine
Where we believe to live !
Believe ! We live to relieve and leave to relive.”
“Et plaga coeli non solum ad robur corporum, sed etiam animorium facit …….” Vegetius, i. 2
[The climate of efficacy, not only to the strength of bodies but to that of souls also……]
Cloaks of clocks who never lock the talks to light the sights to see though the sea of clocks of cloaks that flock the rocks to chalk to shock or block the talk of the time through the chimes of the paradigms that ever grew in the old and new by a few who never knew their dues to be done to the dews of a winter dawn though they too grew to go through the lawns and lanes of the dawns that are yet to be drawn on times’ pages of ages that cage the sages and guess the guilt through their built-in gates of mind-sets that were built though by the rightful sights but by the needs that bleed the creed throughout ages by crazes that sledge the thoughts of the lots of the spots where millions flowers grow to the flow of the flowers of growers of the light to lead the seed and breed the humane-light through the mundane nights of the greed’s and grids of needs that beget the biggest human needs to a scale that often fail to tell the ever-agreed needs to seed and breed the creed that’s not haunted by the greed though goes by the flocks of clocks that brings the rings of lights that sing up the flights of the rightmost sights of the time out of the paradigm of greed and needs that are so far seeded and needed indeed to breed through the seeds of the creed of the lights of sights of wrongs and rights to light the mundane nights that darken over nights the sights of wrongs and rights to highlight the high lights not through fights but through enlightening the lights of sights that flow to grow the growers of the flowers of the flows of people to grow in and out without doubt to be condemned in the further times that give the timely chimes of times through the hymns and rhymes from time to times without clocks not to lock, shock, block or rock but to the talks for flocks of folks altogether to gather all together to gather.
Run the clocks and the flocks of the cloaks as run the time-space in its race to trace itself in the shelf of paces’ sea-hills on the heel of the tiny wheels of the times of the sweetest chimes that come out of times’ paradigms of time-spaces in the races for the graces of the phase of the base of time that’s grown in sublime chimes of times time to time through the clocks and the cloaks of the flocks that never block the shocks to rocks but chalk the talks to block the rocks that shock the clocks of the flocks of the time to pave the waves of behaves on behalves of those who don’t halve to be ‘have’-s though there are millions who do not have any of the halves of the hubs even on behalf of their halves though they behave too having all the goods to breed the seeds of the creed, and indeed the halves in the hubs too need to breed the seeds of the excel-grids for the times of needs that run the clocks, flocks, cloaks and the strokes of the spokes of spaces that forever race in its paces of races’ races that trace and place the races in its rightmost places for the brightest graces of the best times and spaces of the endless