When your body temperature drops few degrees down and the sun would not come up over an African desert, when meadows full of sunflowers seem like mirage in between never ending cloggy forest, and your heart does not contain Irish green fields full of white sheep; when the sky has no stars only darkness which frightens, comets all fallen and the earth freeze; you understand that the winter has come. Time to go all the steps down to the place where you are born once again, fragile so fresh tiny white flower beside mountain that protects, that nourish your thirst by droplet one and one more from the waterfall owned by jungle, and feed you sun kiss two and two more, until the total light emerge. The Moon covers your land, little flower, you hear wisdom of mystery not knowing are you in realm which is not yet perceivable, or you already became, but yet cannot see. Though you do sense and feel so much that around, ever it is. Waiting. For a heart to adopt. Fragile so fresh tiny white flower. It has one. It belongs.
(... from the hallways of the Full Moon, wondering mind.)
Bells toll to-day. Dense smog of duality...
Notice and Accept/Negotiate your Calling can you, will you, must you Gain a sense of Connection between your Life Purpose with Inn a Universal Perspective.