If you go quiet, you can hear the birds outside

chirping and singing at the joy of existence.

If you go even quieter, you can feel the thrum of your own cells

chirping and singing at the joy of existence.

If you become still, you can see thunderous beauty

in everything that appears to you.

If you become even more still, you can see that the beauty

is painted upon the canvas of your true face.

It is fine to traffic in opinion and ideology,

just know that you do so while perched upon the nose hair

of a giant grandmother who is older than the sun,

and that the words you speak are woven from mysteries

far more profound than the thoughts they express,

and that the ears which hear them are all made of frogs

who are calling the cosmos into existence

with a sky-shaking, earth-thumping haka.

Behind our disagreements and our arguments,

our inquisitions and our holy wars,

our town square incinerations of heretics and books,

life leans back with an amused smirk and watches

as our stories sputter and splatter to the floor.

Beneath the churning babble about shoulds and shoudn’ts,

a hand beckons from a familiar door

to a place you forgot about

when the grownups dimmed your eyes.

Prior to the oil angels and the bank boys,

the TV talking head machines and the skullface comedians,

the flying robots which rain fire on children,

the rolling war cannons and armageddon ships

and the needletooth manipulators who laugh in lonely halls,

there is a baby made of soil,

and that soil is made out of stardust,

and that stardust is made of the core of your heart,

and your heart is beating

and this whole show is dancing

so that you can have the opportunity

to see it all

and to hear it all

and to take in the beauty

and to leap for the joy

and to weep for the sorrow

and to look deep within

and to make your decision

and take your stand,

once and for all.

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