Green Muffin Hills

Blood cells turned blue…

a mass of blue kelp floats,

somewhere amidst nine layers of fog;

You see no one except the “I”.

You see…there’s no one encroached ever,

the valleys of green muffin hills resembling,

Darjeeling fields with the white clouds just near the leafs

Sprinkled pearls of dew… in them alloyed rhizoid bacteria

fertilizing the images of someone supposed to be Spiritual Something

but where?- where is the one who felt down in despair for the Men lost the idea for

the Magic of something called Love, and the Hexes of Creativity beyond visible forms

and shapes disperses, and colors, and nuances, and sound, and vibrations, and feelings, and destinations…

and destinations…

and destinations…

…and the tree that laments the death of lianas embracing its marvelous body as old as

Holy Scriptures, those who evaporate the smell of Nard and keep between its pages the wreaths of Myrrh…oh Mother Miriai: “I’m the ashes beneath your holly feet when you swear in Certitude”: In my forehead there’s a testimony, the Angel of the Right Shoulder and the Angel of my Left…are witness what my Womb bears: for others are unable to see what you saw, Miriai. No, there were never neither they would ever be able to see, what you saw:- what I saw…what I saw…what I saw…what I saw…what I…