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Garden Of Consciousness

I'm a guest in your body, in that mirror of innocence,
where before the glass is existence
and behind the silver, emptiness.

Watching myself in a dew drop on your hair
glittering in the melancholy shine of the sun god I feel,
That we're flowing into pink wine ,
for which I'm the blood and you the water.

And still I know that you'll not flow all the way
to my kingdom of neverending silence,
where thoughts are just flocks of fancy coloured birds,
whose meaning is uncertain
as a deaf blind man's description of the world.

I'm the guest of the body in your body,
for him I'm just the garden of consciouness,
for which every fallen thought us as well the appearing one

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