The Light of Auroch-Cherubim Chiseled from Sapphire Fig

On Cedar Plains East and West

by (and images by) / di (e immagini di) Till Bögelsack (non è stato possibile tradurre il testo, in quanto inteso come fluire poetico)

Riding the eastern and western plains

Word is upon a word is upon a steppe. Rudraksha light and grass copper whirl. Of a spoken whole. Of an inner sapphire dye, freed from the devotion of predictability – they discover an inner discernment in nascent nature of East and West. And they convey, convey in resonance. 

Caringly speak – speak they of warm-carnelian night up-on Mount Belukha – see it all from cedar top, cedar forest re-emerge. 

Solid is the mountain fig under bronze moon – say they. With fig’s wings spread under cedar snow – soon lifting snow, from clay up to plains of East and West. As if from Baltic Sea onto coastal plains untouched, a conscious light of light of inner ancient Tyre. 

Let us feel what is within the plains of an inner desert, contained in plains of what wind carries, and soon to be a good serpent-way, is it a woven rider who hastens south, wholesome and vast in instinctive motion, and – is it not the carnelian bond of what is, is it that which we become, is what emerges in twists of an agate pass within. 

Our inner auroch-cherubim on the back of a white horse between high reed, calcite shelfs on steppes, shines like mountain porcelain – a painted coastal ware of flattened organic, calcium stalactite.

So is all inner grassland – an awareness of immensity to be – εἰμί (eimí) – within the grassland, like us being a vagarous grape of a sinewy inelasticity, just like dry steppes. Fully compacted in one fig form, Aristotelian inner primal matter hyle (ὕλη), feeling unreachable in inner knowing like steppe land grass – our being seems stannous like tin-glazed pottery – and yet we ponder steppes – on a mirrored surface of an inner ocean like a swimming sapphire fig. 

Strenuous, as if no wings can be uplifted under the firmament’s moon. And sometimes moon-quiet as if passing through a tunnel, before an elastic way through mountain sinew has been found. 

We may receive a firmament dye, an ink grass kenosis (κένωσις) – and water origin awareness, from the vast marches, steppes, sphere of nothing through the eye of their endlessness, extensiveness, depth, substantiality. 

We may bring from within this motion of nothing laid delicately, horizontally, laid upon a plate of their fullest embrace on the immediate porcelain, plain of fig, and therewithin, a humble spelt, an appreciation of the arrival year upon year of ever new waves on May steppe grass and deep earth, to what is to us a deeply-rooted cistern of water and steppes. 

Salt, ocher and clay cavern cracked and opened to light for an inner graceful pelican and yet – fully un-discernable steppes. Like the – down and fore – motion of reeds, and rusty-sturdy, fresh-livened caverns opened under Crete. Water-light comes from the architect-culture that feels internal.

Steppes. A wild onagers fer, is fer-warm, a noble horse in a valley of proud and lifted mares. Their encounter is a word of nothing, full of commonality and of chariot winds, through agleam Aegean straits, ocean wings. A sense of gliding like gushes like soft snow on golden apricot, a Siberian wind flowing down-to-earth across dried plains of the Aral Sea, riding on a bed of drought-wind on an inner-Eurasia-coastal travel dare. 

In all this ancient Ur and Sumer’s grace of sand is revealed – instating sitar’s rhythm through reeds just once more – a smoothing voice played to ease the oaky tension of city’s branches – through a maze and breeze of emmer wheat. 

Inner Versailles of Vegetius tributaries in the body of sapphire auroch-cherubim. In lush fields, touching their surface all in all feels like interlaced branches sprawling from a good coeur. 

An innermost inner keel – it is their jacinth-jasper heart – shines through riveting cedars – striking outward, and us sensing a lattice nature. They are thriving in a natural blanket of wind. Watter ripples from their heart. Onto these wisdom waters, a mirror held, reflecting the smoothened surface and ice, mirroring Lake Baikal and Ural.

Displaying silver-turquoise reeds of fine hair and a graceful carriage of words spoken caringly as if spoken under the plenary of towering date palms. Palms are as hard to comprehend as are steppe hairs, risen hairs, and, out of form as they seem from another day – as if we were sitting on an aisle of pillars between tall grasses. 

Sifting the wind near ancient Isle Tyre, and strong legs of willows the waters do contemplate, become stiff like steppes and feel strife – soon to sturdy form and inner pillar, deepening their sea of inner reeds. Rooted steppe-deep, iron-jacinth barley-time, a non-insular vast sun, graceful.

Above, a soul sentience of laced light spins a nocturnal moon – on a bed of synaptic wings – of a linen, flows like sitar, like fig leaves, a table-wise. The good is near, tender moon, as if a fig leave-ornamented egg is blown off on a timeless steppe-less course, becoming carnelian like Veleti rye, and ocean water. 

On each side a wide width, within it, steppes cover fine linen. And the water covers these steppes – a linen midday. Thereafter, deserts illuminate dates. Nearby, the iron spheres of figs shaped like earthly grapes are destined for a feast, on a platter of the palm’s midday, within the hour of light. 

On the nature of light on steppes of grass: Is it far and fetched, an inner soul-psychē (ψυχή), wide and discerning? – the oak and swallow may say and sing sky-day:  

Say, Sapphire Fig, speak your inner light, light on these plains. Where have you been? Perhaps, if you have seen ancient Dilmun – would you stay therein pleasantly, become gardener of these figs perhaps – caring botanist of the cedar forests, copper sands – form an inner house on marginal peninsula plains like the Darß, a desert paradise within us. 

One’s feet in moist, glacial rain under a full firmament, earthly circumference. Your wings spread onto the white grass of the flat plain, where the jade moon sat last night. 

Rode horses to ancient Eridu on these plains – herrings of the Nebra sky above you, you seemed like a copper fig under the colossal firmament. Deep inside the lowest moon, a light reflection on the porcelain. On hooves of an oak table, a surface moon reflected σελήνη (selḗnē), the glacial mirror of a polite walk perhaps, an outline of firmament, figment of sea.

And they sat again near the firmament, in a rider’s shoes while drinking qahwa. Lyre-writer lyrical feats of joy. Swaying like a mountainous symphony to ancient Hattusa – from steppes of flat land. Flying from mountains to plains – back again, as if on poets’ feather-spilling ink – to ease the flow, gliding onto cedar forests, onto dry salt, on dry marches. 

Riding on saddles, on horseback, riding plains as if riding on flat ice – they felt the heat melting the hour like salt-like crystals. What gave them ink, leafy-feathery upplight? Or were they in the world of strain – a spelt of the geology internal where nutrients, like calcium grains, like calcium lava are like the sand, under hypothetical wings of sapphire figs, everchanging like the Darß wind. 

As if they were crafting good, healthy laughter from salt out of cedar wood touched by ocean water, a firmament internal, a stem of a Cidaridae. In the light of sapphire from whence they became, they brought forth warm laughter, brought forth laughter from underneath tension out of the sand, like cedar wood that had risen out of dry clay last night from floods.

Yet they bore a mild sight of a clay, in jade-emerald, of botanist’s garden at ancient Dilmun, drying like magnesium in the palm of hands. Played alongside the shakuhachi – they saw a modern clay out of water’s sudden urgency. To emerge, as if an East German dove – from within a spilled motion of hand, onto agate plain. Vast plains of sand. They saw knowing figs emerging, on leaves of vermillion plains, like a ripe carnelian peach on stems of jade, out of nothing. 

Soon to be water from the plains of botany. They were poetic, earthly auroch. They had become nothing but earthly auroch. Yet nothing of apricot substance had been restored – or revealed. Nothing at all they were, nothing had become of them in discernment. Look again, through reeds of myriad filigreed calcified figments, inner auroch-cherubim light. 

Have you seen a mirrored fig in these reflections on ice, of inland clay, an inlay road, where they rode a basalt as fluid as a poetic lava, yōgan? Say now, do you see the sapphire fig growing a sturdy pillar of inner girth, its own inner quadrant, water-stem. A creative dye from a modern slice of the cedar dice – played – now forms an inner apricot-poetry, water stem.

Now everything seems up for your inner-erstwhile-good ways. Surely, sapphire fig, decision-tree like a wise dove, you form good nations friendship φιλία (philía) of multi-optionality, cidarid multi-non-polarity.

*°*°*

Now wind has disappeared. And to have spoken seems a former speech, inner λέξις (léxis), of the inner jade-sapphire water-leap. No more than an outer extension of an innermost, vast light, sound. A resonance like a good dye – becoming full cedar. One cannot hold onto sand, neither can we hold onto sound, and an auroch-cherubim on plains of ice often glides on the plains of a speech internal. 

The ice, shallow yet deep, carries the effect of sound like weaves – which carry across water-deep – into crowns of the wise steppes, tied to an inner ocean water. And they do not stop amid the midst. Waters come and flow, in the locution of grains of sand of an inner ocean. This is where the ocean holds a slither of time. More than that which is accommodated, allotted, spoken yet. 

And unspoken is the tension within – wide-eyed-arguments of dry sapphire dyes. Sand like an ocean, sturdy-pushing unwritten time. Dried state and state of wood. An unwritten parchment of two geologies of innermost inner-myth, crack of light in the firmament plain, stored underneath and flat under dry tow. 

The unfolding of mountains on plain deck like flat sand of Uruk, solid like a rocky surface of jade, dyed surfaces of sand and ocean-leaves. They stick out under linen sails. Lying flat, leafy-lazily. Leaves go unnoticed underneath steppes, as if the dawn of another one’s visit hidden in the shadows of the cedar tree – branchy δένδρον (déndron), announcing streaks of leafy news. Visitors on humble ships spill these sapphire figs on flat surface of dry sand; another one’s gain of internal rye.

Nothing is said, unbroken is the earthly gain, in the grace of a Sumerian amber grain. Because it is where form flows with tendance, instinctive sand learning, from a long chaff of thought – an ocean wide like the carrying weight of the steppes finding a single corn of deep-dye-jade in the sea. Mild voice of harvest, four-rivers-wheat. 

It is a strong thought like a deep cedar on basalt. In the rush of water, the layer of the sea becomes a layer of basalt mountain. Cedar forest, ἄλσος (álsos) and ὕλη (Aristotelian wood named hýlē), of finding ourselves therein.

Then there is the inner fer, is yielding to their warmth of ruby heart, like the grass of plains, of land – one feels, transcends into waves of southern wheat – down from the upland plains of Hattusa. Onward through upland’s dry spells, steady with the horse into southern sand, onto a wide table of grace of a flat tablet of inner togetherness-sharedness. 

Letting sand and copper intertwine in the lower mountains into horizontal spread, a cedar-like crust deepening as caverns re-open, then everything melding like metal onto the forest floor. Silver and fine dew of the wide onion dome unfolding. Time spreads along the pink horizon, the vast living bread spreads on the plain, rye time. 

Devoted to the reach of finest olive expanse. Through the octagonal telescope, yielding to the inner economy of plate tectonics, where Suppiluliuma’s world may become a worldly treat of diplomatic essence once again, a form governed by fine time and great spread. 

It is a lasting matter that searchers undertake, for now their nature remains one, entirety of the vessels and plains. 

For now, smooth pottery is only worn in caverns of jade; through rye ages, therein, they display the widest circumference of basalt matter, of time like the wise mineral flow near Aswan, reconnecting cultural sinews.

And it takes time to stand still, in circumference, on an earthly plume just held by gravity, tying surface of the sapphire apricot to jade. Appreciate the Galilean moons through curved time with their rich inner rye of circumstance – lasting. 

The depth of their inner cave creates the widest circumference within each of these shadow apricots, another smooth age, as earthly mold unfolds and lets light there into, and everything in between has become vision and nutmeg delight. Plain night.

*°*°*

A devotee’s plain is like an inner sand-cakrāsana, form of inner hatha yoga, a τροχός (trochós). Oneness with free chirping, poetic ink feathers lost in the ascendance of the Fenghuang, graduating softly onto white linen surface, line by line into the sapphire ocean near Philae. Light. They have been asked for some additional width of the wide, widest reeds. Siberian steppes. Caring, inner deeds.

Width and widest circumference of a lengthy, sand-flattened sinewy stretched soda straw. In these brackish waters, reeds hold a dove’s plume high, and there they settle on a sand pillow, settling in a town near them to rest like in bed of shallow ocean salt. Writing, royal laurel of jasper sand, all meets the ocean. Nourishing it is – it is like a spelt in time. Waters guard of wheat fields – of a vast vision from a horizontal river. Dry time.

And they have neither been a good receiver of the news – exact in their inner grace of receiving water. Nor have they been desert air – ἔρημος (erēmos), another vertical new light of being, nor are they the mineral-einkorn wheat, fluid nourishment on leaves of pines, nor the deep words of the royal Queen Tawananna. 

Because riders are like a royal shadow, a wavy-discrete, horizontal reef, the willowiest copper dye – what they have begotten, received on grassy plains is a storm of reedy wisdom. Sturdy they are, like ocean to share the sapphire of the Seraphim through their ways, on garnet chariots through the motions of the steppes. Inner synaptic motion.

But a serpentine spelt of wisdom, like reeds, like spelt, comes from the deepest kernel, in a nightly garden under the moon like under an inner Pluto apple. Humble-proud μῆλον (mēlon) in the kernel of heart. 

Here they were hoping for an inner ace to be granted, warm-wise and good words of their deeds. Of these riders light will come, light-spread in due time. Under a constant moon that naturally transcends, they are like an ode to hymns of a sage – pink paradisaic salt which has risen from a spelt of a fountain – from a well-deep watershed underground. 

Seamless strain of wisdom, σύνεσις (sýnesis) therein, an essence of salt like a man-made vessel ascending across the Iapetus moon that is coming up – from the continental shelf deeply vaulted, their deepest plains to reach up into the firmament right under the sea below, eventually sand-breaking through tables of reeds, surface water. Carrying these waters internal and within.

In the Phoenician width of cuneiform, they bring a vision of inner width, vastness, and expand wisdom on the horseback of their every travel, and sweet water of the wise flows relentlessly, from deep within a vessel carrying the inner motion. 

The inner spelt brought forth a deep crunch in the fold of salt water, a returning chalk mineral like a cedar entering soil. Moon soil. Calm as a rice bed on watered steppes and plains, a nutritious hall was sowed.

Letting cuneiform clay flow, it is being, it is all in an oval awareness, a ruby pomegranate. Nothing. Nothing bound but horizontal dove that is transcendent over plains of water, as they are – and we witness further motion across plains, grass and reeds. 

Half hay, silver like a groyne like silver dye on pines, birch, reeds. It declines, bows its inner posture as the wind flows from Tyre and blows, blows. Reaching into widest crunches, cracks of mountain folds like purple snail dye under sea cover.

And there is shifting, wind-grass flowing onto two plains, between these four mountains of an imagined height. An agate mountain stir, meeting water naturally. In between a rift of the western and eastern ocean unfolding, closing. Perhaps a lithosphere of becoming, jade-agate dye on surfaces of cedars with light. Letting devotion in, undoubtedly in. As if to be, to become, to unfold and provide a further extent to the written word under firmament tent. Firm, self-directed circumference under the sky-lit of all.

*°*°*

And we extend their choice of the sapphire voice to the beyond, reaching far yonder our inner wise arrondissement as was laid out on these steppes – letting everything drop into a canvas of a cave lit by nightly amethyst milky ways. Soothing lavender in a bowel of basalt lit at night. 

Lights lit in the firmament of the basalt moon, voids’ shore rye-dye above, little nuance, unspectacular. And a nightly calm is appreciated, trailing custom-stars. Letting the many sides join and adjoin and rejoin into sinews of rye-basalt and spelt-like vision, rocky cavern coverage. 

What words can you possibly say without Cyrillic, lotus of our inner λότος (lotos) that we have not yet spoken. It is said in jade of transcendent time – and has it not been said, in impermanence, non-basalt, in words not even circumstantially? On horseback, under sails of jade, while riding on the apricot plains from east to west. And we descend from the Pamir Mountain pass at night. 

*°*°*

There by the fountain-nocturnal they rested and met, and they adjoined the cedar forests as one. Like good lichen on the bark on pristine birch, in cuneiform. In patience, riders from the east in heavy clothes. With linear sapphire crowns, like rulers measured upward in morality and nature, in a purple dye fully sublime. They used to transcend their own inner voice through these rift valleys. 

Calling home into reeds and grasses, a voice within the voice following the shape of the birch. The fitting lichen fruit comes in the form of a fruit of sapphire dye. It is truly a moment to reflect. 

Rest and ponder firmament’s circumstance, yet the price of the ancient Silk Road comes not without a measure of deep-red-carnelian and deep-blue-sapphire fruit, in between citron, κίτρον (kitron) of uncertainty and good taste. Even while listening, with full yearning. We call home the balaika.

And then they flowed as if they were a seeming nuance, like geologic anemones fallen onto agate leaves for another just attempt – to lift the wings of a single mountain cedar, alongside folded sand on either side. Besides them deep dye, swing of arms, sideways swayed – and motion as if derived from no internal econometry. Lines like consonants blurred, their Carolingian wings unfolded. 

Below is knowledge, webbed feet within the inner parchments, within it all practitioners of years they seemed to be – as they have crossed a wordy lattice-fracture of waves of citron leaves. 

Then words came back from below the leafy parchment to citron core, but even then, the Queen of Mesilim could not guide their wordy ships through the folds of knowing fig branches. To guide ships through sand and plenary ice, kelp reef.

*°*°*

Nothing can hold their sturdy tent, not even hold ten pillars under such a crumbling of dire stars in a nightly, bread-crumbly sea night. And they spilled a vast litany of calligraphy hastily near their inner sea, by the other sturdy sea as if by the second river, and the land in between by salt flood and glacial glow was covered in oasis, as if figs rose as cities in the east with a stunning Cyrillic dome, as they did in imagination by the great city Petra. 

Theirs is an inner ocean, carved lines in sand, where shores meet, and the desert re-be-comes riveting, dipping deep. A white horse with wings of jade restored between reeds with single desert’s breath. Yet appreciatively delightful by the samovar where they sturdy chariots by apple water.

We see and we do. We perceive and we sit, expressing appreciation for sapphirine cedar light that transcends a meager drink. Yet, it’s wholesome. Yet whole in proportion and flow. Being one being which flows across the gulf of awareness and into wisdom, white-jade-sturdy unfolding light protrudes into crevice and lattice of inner lightful-tender dew of sharedness. Vast rye of chlorophyll morning.

Can you witness geology and behold the written word on a stone tablet rewritten, adjusted, smooth as cold lava, visual basalt like Hieroglyphic Luwian, an amber grace that has been spelt, remembered and received? 

It is more than anything, no connotation in the immediate, a worldly wonder of citrine quartz – a touch of lepidolite, forming inner glass amethyst. Yet, in it a vision of transcendence. 

What is seeding this inner sprawl of geodes within them like a glacial date palm, spelt of time – which become the dendrites of nascent springs of Mount Belukha, nascent, received, warm inner cuneiform. 

Yet riders see, feel, every word, like a warm fer, somehow. It is nothing more than the tempest of expression across a linear width of desert and forest of cedars, they said. But, perhaps, it is wisdom – alit-wise. They never held in their hands more than a day’s worth of salt of knowing, a good and wonderfully lame carnelian secret. 

*°*°*

Yet within, a sense of humble knowing rises among them, inner σοφός (sophós), from the myriads of grains of sand between them. They are whole figs. Yet they spelt another day and another vision. Developed taste for another salt.

And it is the light of calm-rider’s talk that brings everything into one seedling, fig, flowing light of circumstance, perhaps rye of truth, ἀλήθεια (alḗtheia). Seeing the stratagem of the octagonal time ahead of them in the plain valley – of a timely sand-spread in more than four directions. It all spells out the lyre of cuneiform and brings out what they never heard. 

*°*°*

And their copper day becomes night of day, grapes of day and night, and the inter-dew of time. Nothing has ever been said that cannot possibly be held in the palms of their fellow, kindred-time. All is seen as circumstance, moment-capture. It is what it is, not more and not less, never less. 

That is key and clarity, and perhaps – a vision of subtle strategy, stratagem of the second day. Night brings clarity of each rider’s way, to a day of knowledge. And the night transcends the fig’s moment. Evening shore of moon, morning shore of awareness and light of day and night. 

*°*°*

There is more to hear about nesting birds above clouds and a curved table like the horizontal firmament they reside thereon, there upon an olive bell ringing for wheat – calling for inner stir, for midday lavender meal, for them knowing their highest value, for their inner appreciation of good pride. Now, listen close to the swallow at night, more swallows hopefully come, they become second nature. Wholesome and an inner sound to hear. 

And where one swallow sits, more swallows will lavender-share more hay substrate with us and we hardly recognized their bounty, initially, and we only saw rider’s grace. There is much beyond first sight. But now, they become real and seem to us: a midday date, honey of fields. A good tide.

There is a tendency. A healing jade-chlorophyll-jacinth core. Like matryoshka in the internal firmament, that connects all – tied into iron plain, and thereon we stand appreciating every seam of grass and small heaven in between. In between pine woods, of scent of rusty gold apricot that spells a day. We are just arriving, a little behind time, between rock and shoulder. 

And it is in the world of the plain of the northern desert, between pines of plains – that is where everything re-joins, re-comes. An adjoined balalaika becomes like sitar, spelt muse of μουσική (mousikē) like a note on the parchment that has risen from windy ink on the coastal sight, a plain gain. From glassy leaves like from the glacial frame on Lake Baikal. Like folded valeur, precious palm leaves of agate-jade imagined. Perhaps, one cannot see dried grapes and the dates become more than a moment of what is. But they remain precious.

Rye is grace, a good choice – and it is a limitless rice, inner spelt of good ways, corn fruits between mountains of Atlas and Altai. And it is in us and the wonder of all and everything in between. Grass, like rye, comes, travels and breaks free from a drained vision, and is in the world, it cannot be alone, it cannot be a single lever of rye. It must be more but can be less. 

A full grassland, more than a moment, and more than a desert choir between fig and pine, it re-arrives, returns in thought, waits on plains in front of a forest of pines bundled in unity and form, one physical form of riding and inner ἄσκησις (áskēsis) of pines and birch swaying Altai plains and layered agate motion of high plains formed into a bundle, royal form of sand. 

Nothing has happened but grass, all still undivided. Only sand and creativity unfold as one path altogether whole.

*°*°*

There is this sense of merging within the phloem of the bark of pine, mitochondrial harp-like coniferous ways up and down in the blossoming heat, where no pines before having stood near a large warm, auroch-cherubim-shaped rock. But the snow on a cedar’s tails of a forest always becomes glorious, nourishing the world of sand like a sea-oasis of arctic light, has become a dessert of upright fer, hairs of the cedar crown. A caring cedar of north, fig of rushing contemplation. 

Have they heard of the tailored width between two mountains – circumference of cedar forests, in between these mountains – rowing sound of sharp wings as cedars dressed in jade like a rehearsal. In a wide fig’s oasis, and all is well-measured. Therein a pile and sleepless nights, pillows – upon pillars between crumpled rocks, truffled Versailles maze on forest floor. Moss. 

The air feels fermented and firm, ready for moss-like rest on grains, as if on lasting cedrene crops on plain linen. A wide latticed field of a soft loose, walking bare feet – perhaps midday dreams under mountain cedars near Lake Baikal.

Have they contemplated the full measure of the valley between sandstone mountains? The width, in between, is an inner harvest, nourishing a rising cedar forest on top of this light auroch-cherubim rock, and a tendance of sinews binding cedar forests – keeps holding the land, in between ryes found in passes in the south. 

Now it is all theirs – within them the ribbons of a peacock’s dream. The entire cello of an oasis of all sapphire rocks intertwined – under torrential skylight in a dry night without clouds. Relishing the sky fig moving on clouds like a bed of câlin wings, a glassy lyre, vast firmament of night. 

There is a moment of contemplation and the inner still as if on sapphire wings of auroch-cherubim, through an oasis of plains. As the sky fig becomes form and reemerges in glacial night. Through night and day, it is. And the wisdom arrives like a calm silver-jade grass, a moment of transcendence as if nothing happened. Still is the grass.

Do you see grass, body of steppes – σῶμα (sōma)? The riders – they move on, re-setting bronze plates on their chariots riding on dried salt plains, where nothing is but firmament. Spell out the day if you do not know the night. Only if you can tell. What is a day, your constitution within. Foretell, tell us of a plain of adornment. Every adornment maintains within copper and a new beginning, rekindles the lyre of the vision of the day, a night-time interflow. 

*°*°*

Dipping in the essence of nothing captured from within, the inner endearing sheet – when lying low in the grass, riveting dawn is unfolding – all is but an ocean of raisins spawning fresh deserts on the graceful white linen. A specter of the agate sand in our dry marches of dried-up creativity. 

And nothing has been said when blowing sand from a sheet as if it were linen, one wind that cannot transcend day and night. And the moon above becomes spelt of day. It is what is day, it is night what is day. 

Have you tasted the mineral salt – this samovar of wealth is a feeling, felt healing udumbara like fragments of vast white linen – is a field with a nadir of the inner moon pointing north from the calm desert, through astronomically-charged sand. And we are riding north to the emergent, steppe plain to the inner north, from the inner nadir of south. 

And nothing is left but words of tundra and guidance. And the night is cold in the wide, broad-lane, wide desert, and warm is the cover keeping us warm. Under date palms, a tablet of bread and salted honey. Salty spread, singleness, together they become joined, a rare salt stalactite.

There is guidance in deep plains. In the widest width on the nadir and compact thought, grapes like stalactites they become – they become like starry prayer beads. 

They re-emerge from the deepest contentment of coastal plains. And everything becomes an interflow, dyed fabric. We have never seen the vast eyes of the taiga like this. 

And they and us, we know. The first travelers to the inner light in a cavern of the sapphire sky fig, and emergent inside – the salt cavern stalactite.

Next week the second part / La prossima settimana, la seconda parte.

Friday, September 26, 2025 / Venerdì, 26 settembre 2025

On the cover and in the article: all images courtesy by the Author (all rights reserved. Reproduction prohibited) / In copertina e nell’articolo: tutte le immagini courtesy l’Autore del testo (tutti i diritti riservati. Vietata la riproduzione)