Within The Light Of Siddhartha
Silently the erratic flights of thoughts are learned to the breathes of man
like burning skin and motionless erotic poems.
Empty of joy and sorrow empty of wishing empty of a single goal: The essential prerequisite , the esoteric doctrine exposed like rays of a burning sun.
That which is no longer my self , the perfected man , a image of manners not of ethical wisdom, the doctrines of circumstance or everlasting mysteries.
As if the Buddha was the honored friend who waits no longer and this this chosen path of man is for the choosing of yourself, this a salvation.
Our vision of the exacting taskmaster is a exact antithesis, empty and evident or everyday reality , communication the excessive truth.
More silently the honored friend is empty in the exclusive discernment only to be counted as if a excitable exasperation of time.
Siddhartha has no esoteric appearance but a expeditionary force of the comprehensible conduct, exquisite of diffusion and circumstances.
False illusions and fallacious hopes perpetuated sometimes in a faded magnificence . Life familiar sacredness and allusiveness ,fathomless and faultless.
As the Buddha is pedantry to fattening servitude we live in fearful imprecation a bewilderment of invocations.
Life as the festive of illuminations or a tyranny of pretext of the choosing we empty our impatience .
A desire of fine sensibilities a finished artistry , at times brutal in the flames of faith, floating in blackness Buddha is our conscience flickering to our will.
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