The Fool.

For our           transgressions surpass

the fleeting                        feeling of

compassion               that subsides in

the midst            of our benevolence;

we think                    that our love is

unconditional                   until it rips

our lungs open,                then as we

guturally cry,          our ignorance will

choke us until            we fade and rot.

How vain and                 bleak is the

sense of self;               disconnection

of the soul and             the distorted

meat that chains us to     the Naraka.

How many years         must we wait?

How much        do we need to bleed?

Samsara pours itself on me;     I see

them,       all of the wretched beings

that try to colonize      our existance;

they take, they eat,    they consume

they revolve  around everything that

gives,         but they never pay back.

God is talking to me,    but the noise

its too                         much to bear.

I get up every morning    just to feel

sick;           this fleeting feeling, this

fake and cynical ataraxia. It cuts my

tongue with            the vain lies that

come out of           my putrid mouth.

How much do I need    to suffer until

I can make use              of this pain?

My lord blesses the one who mourns,

but who do I mourn?    Do they even

remember?                I do not know.

Forgive me.

The Valley of Mind.

Volume II.

Fleur.