Tell me about the passing of life,
its thin door which is as fragile as life itself.
I can hear the music on the other side,
its thin door which is as fragile as life itself.
I can hear the music on the other side,
and the shadows of bird flight
move under the door frame
with the tinkle of wind chimes.
move under the door frame
with the tinkle of wind chimes.
Tell me about how life passes into life,
hope into beginnings.
There is no reward for having lived...
hope into beginnings.
There is no reward for having lived...
There is only continuity and re-emerging
from room to room and the love
that perfumes this place and the next.
from room to room and the love
that perfumes this place and the next.
Lisa Marguerite Mora
Originally published here
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Photo - Mystic Meandering
Your photo accompanying such poignant prose is perfection. The author grasps at what we might instinctively deeply know but this knowledge is illusive as a wisp of misty cloud.
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