Dream Vision

Dream Vision – Vision DreamDigital Camera
By Aliana Alani ©2017

 

 

 

You who come to me in the soft hours
Wearing soft cloaks spun with soft sounds
Of sacred worlds,

Soon – if it is time,
Soon – if you agree,
I will sing you into being.

I will sing you, Dream Vision,
From the edges of the glacial mists of knowing
Through the depths of the Eternal Heart
Into the radiant oceans of Now.

I will sing you, Vision Dream,
Soon – if it is time,
Soon – if you agree.

I will sing you into being
Until your world and mine are one,
Then we shall tread a golden realm of love
Together once again.

Hear my call, Dream Vision,
For I will sing you into being.
I will sing you.
I will sing.

Will any notice?
Perhaps.
Perhaps not.

 

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ARE YOU NOT TIRED?

white rose

            ©Aliana Alani 2015     

Unlike many of my writings here, this is more Dylan Thomas than Rumi – but there are things that must be said, words that must be spoken.  

  

I

Are you not tired of battle? I am.

This constant feeding on the life force of others
Till even young bones dry and crumble into dust
And winds lament their passing like banshee cries across the lands.
To what end? For what purpose?

Think you immortality lies within the reach of those
Who trample o’er the souls of others? If so, think again.
Or has this thirst turned so insatiable that friend and foe alike
Become but mere morsels for the next feed?

When is enough, enough?

It matters not what name you give this.
What righteous path you cast its fate along.
Light or dark, it is all the same.
Devoid of love, we are all nothing!

Can you not understand?

II

You plant your flag within the halls of Mount Olympus
Expecting adulation in return. To you, it is but one of many.
But you forget. You lack remembrance.
Therein, perhaps, lies your folly.

So let me help. Let me be blunt.

There are gods and angels who walk amongst the living
Cloaked in skins of a mortal kind. Some appear tattered,
Even wounded, for the journey has been long, nay even arduous.
Still they are present, perhaps, yes even especially, in those very halls
And they are not happy.
They wait, but not for long.

What will you do next, they wonder?
What foolish blunder? What further desecration –
Before you awake and realize?

III

Occasionally one will dust off those weary wings, flutter and fly.
Winds will change, and for a brief moment,
Love will enter the now toxic air.

A sigh of hope is heard within the hearts of many.
But it does not last.
It cannot be sustained.
Not yet.

Ask me why. Oh. Please. Do.

IV

There is a fabric that holds this universe together.
An ancient warp and woof of life.
No cotton this. Not even silk or satin.
No, this is the stuff that hearts are made of,
That travels pathways of geometric harmonics
Lighting galaxies as it spews forth in all its splendour.

It is unstoppable, of course
Unavoidable, actually
Undeniable –
But still you try.

To usurp it is impossible,
A flight of fantasy on your part.
It belongs to all, permeates all, is all.
It is not yours to hoard or blunder –
But still, amazingly, you try.

Are you not tired yet?!

So here’s the irony, the paradox, the problem.
Put simply for you to understand –
What you do blocks the very field of energetic awareness
That sustains your, yes your, very own existence.

You have created a game that is a self-fulfilling prophecy
In which you are doomed to be no more.
You do not know this yet, so you continue,
Like unfed vultures, to merrily feast
Upon the dreams and hopes of others.

If it were just about you,
You would be left to your own devices.
But sadly, it is not so.

You think you can act with impunity
But, once again, you do not remember.
You lack vision, foresight. You do not see the larger picture.
You harm one. You harm all.

And so, ultimately, it cannot be allowed.

V

Understand this –

Unborn dreams are fragile things.
Like hopes, they reside in the realm of etheric mist.
Some say they are the prodding of angels
Whispered gently into an open heart.

What matters is this – to come into being,
They must be nourished, nurtured, loved.

Each spins a slender thread of woven gold
Linking it to the core of all. Invisible to the naked eye,
Unknown to many, they crisscross galaxies.
There are zillions of them.

To the enlightened among you
They are the geometries of existence.
To us, they are the song lines of the eternal heart.

So here’s the rub –

When you repeatedly force a people to its knees
Pushing spirits into the bog of existence
Until they can barely remember their own names
You poke holes in the chrysalis of their dreaming.
You weaken those very threads.
You damage the song lines.

Song lines are the royalty of life from which worlds are born.

If any should break, connected to your doing, you will be held responsible.
That, lest you forgot, is the hidden addendum to the codex of the contract
You eagerly signed when you initiated the Game you were so thirsty to play
(A game, I hasten to remind you, that was meant to enhance not devastate).
You, of all, should appreciate the irony of this.

So I ask again – Are you not tired of it yet?
WE ARE.

VI

There is, of course, a key to redemption – there is always a key.
But you will have to use it well and you will have to use it quickly
For you are running out of time (does this sound familiar?).
Let me offer a clue –

All things are born from the heart
And to the heart all things return

The key, like all keys before and after, has a name.
This key’s name happens to be Compassion.
Not your every day garden variety kind.
NO, only pure unadulterated unconditional open-hearted
Compassion will do now – for all and everything.

You have travelled far from the core of your heart’s awareness.
Will you get back to it in time? We do not know.
But we are obligated to remind you of the key’s existence
And hence give you an opportunity to try.

VII

One last thought –

This world is a precious place, sculpted with endless opportunities for love –
Beautiful, abundant, vast, and deliciously exquisite in its myriad of forms.
It has always been humanity’s mandate to flourish and prosper –
To excel in coming home to its true essence and to cherish all who
Reside in this unfolding garden of love. This mandate will not be denied.

So I will ask you one last time – Are you not tired of this Game?

For truly, I AM.

white rose