This is the house of Love, which has no bound nor end.


The well-swept self sits enslaved
in stillness and the bliss of silence,
all but dissolved in sea water
where moving mountains carve
setting sun into another golden moment
my mind has surfed, switched to listen
to your heart so we can really hear
the nightingale sing his storm song
about the forgiveness of light,
his voice a sliding rule of truth set
to rolling thunder rumbling
in the highest rocks above us.

No more time travel, except to now,
and now again, as it has always been.
No more fractured, fuzzy claims
that “We are one”.

“There is only one,” he sings.
Can you feel it yet?

There is only One.





Between sorrow and joy

Photos or it didn't happen