Raisu or whatever may be, the name does not matter. what matter is the work. Say for example, hereafter some writings of one Bangladesh-born writer is placed wherewith, to the opinion of the writer, Raisu also is present alongwith others. How ? The simple answer is - The Knot of Eternity. It's your task to find the answer in details. So, we think, that caring much about someone's external is not right. May 14th, 2008 The Dedication is to the Graciousness of the Almighty Creator who blessed us with so many blesses like the Eternal Maternity and the Souls sharing and caring for the salvation of all the beings. Prelude of the presenter and copyright owner HE came and gave some of the art-works for preserving and serving to the extent possible. HE spoke, as simple like anyone, about some of the inclinations about those art-labours, and about the dedication line. Close to those inclinations the preparations were done to serve them in a frame before you. And the way all these grew, you knew too, as that’s nothing new to be known by few. May this bilingual presentation bridge the positive souls and minds, of different landscapes of the very same earth, that find anywhere in the life-flow the promises and ties to grow and let others grow. You may not find the Bangla parts of this bilingual publication. Persons interested in reading the Bangla parts are adviced to contact at through E-mail. The Parabola and cive„Ë was inclined to be spread through like a canvas. wkï evsjv, hyev evsjv, evsjvi gv, cÖvš—-wgZv, iƒcK_vi AYyMí ,The Monadics, The Mundane Songs, Uni-Meditation, to be in booklet form. He revived some of the Drvidian drawings of collective-meditation (contained in Uni-Meditation) and requested all to search for the others, the samples of that collection were also inclined to be presented in booklets. There are episodes or parts in Bangla which were kept as it were for the sake of serving and preserving the art-works in their original form. All the literary and other types of art-labours came from one person whose intended name-sign letters are printed as Shv. He thinks that names are but merely the way of indication of a being, so he preferred the art-labours to be known in that way. His fingerprints are printed in this book for the sake of preventing the art-labours from any type of illegal or misrepresented claim or use. Purchasing this collection, you gain only the right to collect and taste the art-labours as it is. This gives you no right of reproduction of any kind other than for academic and humanitarian purposes. Persons interested for any other types of use or reproduction are requested to strictly comply with the Copyrights Laws and are advised to contact with the copyright-holder at the specified contact. Anyway, this collection is presented for the consideration, of the minds who remind and keep in mind, that the alternative to read and write is to read and write. Advocate S.A.K.M. Shamsul Hauque, Shuvo. 8801199 182983, 8801712 109423 E-contact - , “Say: Allah is the One and Only everywhere; Allah, the Eternal, Absolute; ………” Al-Qur’an, 112.001-2 [Al-Ikhlas (Sincerity)] Parabola- 1. The sun sets to set away – it’s the way days give way to the nights, it’s the way always all through the ways that the darks mingle up with the light. The lonely kite on its end-day flight is searching for – a search for something to grip either-or. See the trees, see the clouds, sees the sky and sees the boy who’s without toy and so whose eyes rise like ever high. Sees the boy, and he sees the trees and the clouds, the flights of the kites and the sky that takes you so high to wash off the pains of gains of a lonely sigh of the fatherless child growing up with his mother’s care, though he himself is not much shared by others but by his mother he learns to share. Running here and there the child went not wild though he went to wilds that harness the harshness of life into a light so soft and mild. From the wild, the tiny child learns too how to wash off the mundane pains and the lonely sighs. The tiny child whose mind and eyes browse through the colours of life and through the skies - the trees and clouds and the colours of the sun, do the things that otherwise would have been never done. The trees and clouds, sun-rays and the skies tell him an endless tale of life free from the undue mundane lies. The green leaves, hasty clouds and the playing sunrays all over the sky, binds up the tiny mind and mother-earth with the unseen forever-tie. The tiny mind gets the best ways to find the life as life in a time and space that seems to him not so kind. The sun sets away far a way to bear in mind – the tiny boy and the praising calmness of his sight that the sun leaves behind. The mundane charm of the warmth of a calm working Mom at the end of the day when the sunrays begin to blur, comes to her the time to pray for some from an endless some. Mom, O! Mom, tired of works, but ever so calm, Mom, O! Mom, singing to her kids the holy verses and some of the psalms. Mom! a Mom, likened by the moonlit nights and the stars that blur off with the firsts of daylight. Mom, the Mom, the heavenly grace that the kids brought with them from the heaven, the grace without which the life could not be thought. Mom, a Mom, who sums up some and many of the some of life-sums. Mom, the Mom, tired of works but even too calm. Mom, the Mom, who breeds the creed, feeds and leads them to the holy some. Mom, the Mom, breeds the kids – so need to feed them up – so work so long. Mom, the Mom, leads the creeds, seeds them up, to sing the life’s lovely song. Mom, the Mom, the working Mom, her warmth and the kids’ charms at the end of the day give her the power to forgive and to give the best mundane things to pray to have in the life all the way. Mom, the Mom, the working Mom, tired but calm at the end of a workful day, does not sway anyway to lead her kids in the moves through the life’s busy way. Mom, the Mom, now old and aged and caged in two tiny rooms, she waits for the breeze to bridge the memories chime that faded with time. Faded ? or graded the waves that paves the phases of faces in mundane graces. The Mom’s stone-faced face graces the traces of mundane graces. “Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! The eternal face, Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! The Creator’s mundane grace. Mom, O! Mom, O! the Mom! Closing the eyes, the face all can see. Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! Creator’s best gift only for me.” The children-rhyme with the best chime of time that belongs to none but all who can feel and still can hear the childhood call. The children’s rhyme with sublime chimes waves through times -“Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! The eternal face, Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! The Creator’s mundane grace. Mom, O! Mom, O! the Mom! Closing the eyes, the face all can see. Mom, O! Mom, O! my Mom! Creator’s best gift only for me.” The sun sets to set away – it’s the way days give way to the nights, it’s the way always all through the ways that the darks mingle up with the light. The lonely kite on its end-day flight is searching for – a search for something to grip either-or. See the trees, see the clouds, sees the sky and sees the boy whose eyes rise and live ever high. Rise the eyes through the skies to see beyond and within – the shall, will, are, is, am and been. “Naibā stree Nā pumaneshnā choibaŷong nopunshākh Jod Jochchhorirmadolte tēn tēn sā rakhsnyatē.” – Shetashwatar Upanishad, 5/10 [And this spirit of life is of neither sex, nor is either or other sex, Due to the works, having distinguished figures, gains the gains and pains therewith.] Parabola- 2. The Conch-shell rang the bell to tell the tale of millions years of tales that tell about gains of love and pains of fears. The Conch-shell that spirals in and out but not to bend the spirals that rounds in many but to be one at the end. The brightest way to the slightest ray to carry in the rays that raise the way that for ever been in the waves and the dots that the sights seldom slights out through the flights of lights. Conch-shell tell the tale of millions mundane-years after years of love - gains and pains bound by the ropes of hopes, fierce spears of fears and tears. The Conch-shell spirals in and out but never bends but mend the millions rounds of bounds to be one at the end. Conch-shell, tell the tale of the bluest sky – the sea of lights flying high, the light-sea that the eyes never see but they too fly in that sky that is azurite blue in spite of its own belonging-less-ness. The sky that reminds the “I” about the way the things came into beings out of nothingness. The sky that plays the rays to play the plays of the conch-shell’s many-one ring that says the ways the first-most thing came into being. Conch-shell, tell the tales of seas, rivers and streams that streams in and out of all in their mundane dreams of streams that dreams to be in the dreams of the sublime light’s streams to bright up the flights of the highest sights. Conch-shell – the tale that’s forever to tell. Not so bright and not so dim. Nor like stream or a dream. Not so loud nor so low, but enough to flow for ever to grow on the window-panes or in the dens with the senses of the thinnest lenses of hence and thence. Not so low nor so high, but enough to fly in an endless sky of beings to bring in the rings that spirals in and out but never bend to mend many way’s round to be found as one at the end. Conch-shell, tell the tale that’s yet to tell - the tale that tells of the things that all do to tell the tales that are in them, us and you. Conch-shell, tell the tale of the greenest leaves that live through the ages of believes. Believes that relieves none yet do live and believes in the beliefs that leaves none and relieves all to relive. Tell the tales that forever tell the sweetest chimes of the times that make the times’ timeless rhyme in sublimes. Tell the tale that never fell in any mundane facts or dreams, but flows in all like a water-fall, river or stream. Tell the tale that tells the tales of the tales that is waved like the sky or sea that paves the waves and dots of the brightest spots of the sky’s flight all through the sea that very few may see. Conch-shell, tell the tale that tells the tales of the way we may do the things that are yet to do - tale that tells the tale of being and becoming of them, us and you. Tell the tales to bring the thing to the beings’ rings that spiral within and without in and out but never bend or mend the many way round that’s to be found to be but one at an endless end to which all tends to bend. Conch-shell, tell the tale that never fell, tell them the Conch-shell-tale that’s for all for ever to tell. Óbwn ‡e‡ib †eivwb m¤§š—xÕa Kz`vPbs, A‡e‡ib P m¤§wš— Gm a‡¤§v mbš—‡bv|Ó - a¤§c`, hgKeM©-5 [kΓZvi Øviv kΓZv KL‡bv cÖkwgZ nq bv, kΓnxYZvi Øviv kΓZv cÖkwgZ nq| RM‡Z BnvB mbvZb ag© ev g~jbxwZ|] Parabola- 3. See the Ice-sea dark in the midst of snowstorms full of mist. Loud crowd of large ice-islands stretching their chilling hands in the forms of storms of drowsy mist sweeping North-South-West and East. The way they sway and the way they grow is but the way yet to know. To know the self but through the One, who is none but many in one. Bygone ways and bygone flows in the highs and the lows of the glows that comes out of shiny leaves and flows on through the knots of believes. See the twilight of the starlight – the flights they had through the endless sites that the mundane sights seldom see, sites where the nothingness cannot be. See the starlight are being born around nothingness with in and out. See the time to take birth and to walk about the pace of space that had never been but to take birth from the time within. See the races of paces that made spaces. See spaces that pace the race and see the faces of time through the phases of times. Read the rhymes of time of an endless chime where the time grows out of time that had never been to contain in without time from within the time flows in the time that grows without the space-race of pace in or out. See the time breeze that bridges spaces so far from where they’d be or where they are. See the time-waves in a timeless sea wave the chime for us, them, you and HE. See the stars taking birth in their mother time’s wombs, and see the non-space from where the space blooms. See the time’s chimes that forever sing in and about the spaces’ parabola ring. See the time-doors that pass through the mores of force. See the time-light that helps us see it through the races and paces of places that you seldom see. See the time-waves in a timeless sea paving the time for us, them, you and HE. The man in the wilderness asked of me “How many strawberries grow in the sea ?” I answered him as I thought it good, “As many red herrings grow in the wood !” – English Nursery Rhymes of Bignold. Parabola- 4. The granite sky has showered for long, and yet to shower for some more hours. The wind streams in the room through windows. On the other side of the window, the gainful paddy swaying with its grains and winds. Abreast into the waters that came down from the northern hills, the mountain – ‘where lives the god of rain’, the paddy gainful of its grains dance in the rains. The greens of shades on the blades of the bunch full of grains gaining again the grains of rains. The charming smile of the green that had, have and shall have been in the waves of time, playing with the rains painless chimes through on the waves to let wind pave its ways coming from far a way far away from the river-mouth and further south where no bounds of land can be found and the sea hues the views of blues around. Here are the winds, here they are, far from the sea of the blues’ hues near and far, here they are, playing with the tenderness of the green, here they are, where they had-have and shall have been. The time open itself up and closes in the winds, rains and greens. The time pace the space with the phase of grace that place the race without trace. The time closes out, the time opens up again in, as it had, have and shall have been in the flows within out and in and mingles with the wind, rain and green. The wind flows out, the wind comes in and mingles with the time-rain and green. The rain rains out and rains in the graceful scenes that the time contained in the mind growing out of the minds that grows within, the green flows out and in the greens blowing in the green winds in the minds’ mindful scenes. The time opens up and the time closes in mingling the jingles of rains grains, winds and green of the life growing in and out without and within the minds, winds, times, chimes, rains, grains and greens. No friends, no family, no foes or kin – with him, to share these gains of the rains and grains – gains that came with a mundane rain. The windows blow in the smell of the rain that seldom tell its own gainful mundane tale. He watches the course of a mundane discourse. He goes through the doors without force through the doors of force and the doors of mores of doors to make the blows with winds and glows with the greens that chimes with times to pay time in the rhymes that he gains through the rains and grains far a way far away from the chains and pains. He watches the course of a mundane discourse. He faces the grace without trace and binds the minds with the kinds that he finds. The life too binds out and in from within the minds, winds, times, chimes, rains, grains, and green. The life is in and out without within, as all had, have and shall have been in the minds, winds, times, chimes, rains, grains, and green. “Virtus, repulsae nescia sordidae # Intaminatis fulget honoribus. Nec sumit, ant point secures # Arbitrio popularis aurae. ” Horace, od., iii, 2, 17 [Virtue, repudiating all base repulse, shines in taintless honours, nor takes nor leaves dignities at the mere will of the vulgar.] Parabola- 5a. Sounds of bounds grounds around him for the theme for the rounds to be found abound for the crowneds that surrounds the sounds in the bounds of grounds but never rounds the sounds that comes around to be found to be good and of height albeit sometimes without chimes and may seem to be crude but not shrewd in the theme that may deem all to share and flair in the darks the sparks of lights not to fights but to enbright the light of sight to bring the rights of mights of the lights not found by sights but insights and by the lights that gourd the rites of the rights that do not fight but enlight all the lights altogether for all to gather in this mundane-home, not to Rome but to home all the roads roam around for the bounds that the leaves of believes leaves for us-we the mass that seldom pass through the doors of mores that the force course on us and tells to pass the tails of the tales that none do know but ever grow for the mass not to pass through the doors of mores and to reach the cores of the doors of mores deciding passes by those who seldom passes the test of mores of the doors that they impose and shows no respects for the suspects to self-prove or to improve the move of bounds that rounds beyond doubt from without without sights of rights but of rites that fail to bright up the light of mights of rights that care for either or that care for and do share the flair that flair in the sparks out of darks of sights not to fight but invite the lights of sights to bring the might of rights of the sights and rights not bound in sites but insights and through the sights that gourd the rites of the rights that does not fight but to flight all the lights altogether for all to gather in this mundane-home, and not to roam around Rome but to and from the home found around for the rounds. Grounds of sounds found the rounds where to grow and so to sow the row to care and/or share for the flair the darks of sparks of light that do not fight but to bright the rights of lights to bring the rights of rites of the sights bound in insights but not in sites and by the sights that gourd the rites of the rights that do not fight but invite all the lights for all to gather altogether in this mundane-home, not to Rome but to home all the roads roam around for the bounds. “Non est, ut putas, virtus….. Timere vitam; sed malis ingentibus Obstare, nec se vertere, ac recto doure. ” - Seneca, Phoen., i, 190 […….. it is no virtue to fear to live; virtue consists in withstanding great evils, and not in retiring and shrinking from them.] Parabola- 5.b. Share and care for flair that darks the sparks of light not to fight but invite the kites of lights to bring the rights of mights to the sights not found in lights but insights and in the sights that gourd the rites of the rights not to fight but to bright all the lights altogether for all to gather in this mundane-home, and not to roam around Rome but to and from the home found around for the rounds. Care to share for the flair that sparks the darks of light not to fight but ignite the lights of sights to bring the mights of rights of the sights not bound in lights but insights and in the sights that gourd the rites of the rights that does not fight but to bright all the lights altogether for all to gather in this mundane-home, and not to roam around Rome but to and from the home found around for the rounds. Share to care for the flair that darks the sparks of light not to fight but invite the sights of lights to bring the might of rights of the sights not bound in lights but insights and in the sights that gourd the rites of the rights that does not fight but to bright all the lights altogether for all to gather in this mundane-home, and not to roam around Rome but to and from the home found around for the rounds. Share to care for the darks that sparks in/from the light not to fight but invite the sights of rights to bring the sights of mights of the lights not bound in lights but insights and in the sights that gourd the rites of the rights that does not fight but to bright all the lights altogether for all to gather in this mundane-home, and not to roam around Rome but to and from the home found around for the rounds. Share and care for the sparks that darks in/from the light not to fight but invite the knights of lights to bring the lights of sights of the rights not bound in lights but insights and in the sights that gourd the rites of the rights that does not fight but to bright all the lights altogether for all to gather in this mundane-home, and not to roam around Rome but to and from the home found around for the rounds Rounds of sounds found the grounds where to sow and to grow the row to care and share the flair the darks to sparks of light not to fight but to alight the lights of sights to end the fights of rights of the sights not bound in sites or rites but insights and in the sights that gourd the rights of the rites that do not fight but delight all the lights together for all to gather altogether in this mundane-home, as, not to Rome but to home all the roads roam around for the grounds. Parabola- 6. Then they came without step-sounds, they came through the rounds of bounds, they came through the boundless grounds breaking all through the bounds of rounds. They came without any step-sounds, they came the way they always did – the way that is never reached by the rewards of greed or bid – the way that shines above all the ways like always, the way that is never reached by mass-compliance, fashion or craze. They came through the steppe’s sounds where grounds end but at sky-round. They rounded with them millions grounds that the mundane-rounds rarely found. They came without any bounds of sounds, they came the way they always did – the way that reigns and rains above all the ways as always, they brought with them the best of the seeds yet to breed. They came along a long long way through the way that no one leads, they came through a long journey where none eats or drinks but feeds – the way that gains about many a ways like always without bids. They came without any foot-prints, nor may anyone find their step-sounds, but through the steppe’s sound they came to bring in the boundless grounds. They came through the days and they came through the mundane-nights – bringing with them the rays and darks mingled with the shades of lights. Lights that bright up for the sights’ light that bright up the brightest flights of the rights to light up the sites when darkness darkens sights. They came through the light and shade of the brightest mundane lights and darks, they came with the rightful might to lighten up all that is made. They came to lighten them up without any jerks or sparks. They came to the rightmost places in the rightmost times. They rang no bell but sang the life’s sweetest chimes. They came without any step-sounds though they came through the steppe grounds. They came through the steppe’s sounds and bound the bounds of the groundless rounds. They came the way they will, do and did – the way that is never reached by the rewards of bid or greed, the way that like ever breed the best of the seeds of the creed. They seed along a long long way that they ground in the boundless grounds of the rounds that found in themselves roundless bounds. They came through the light and shade of the brightest mundane lights and darks, they came with the rightful might to lighten up all that is made, they came to lighten them up without any jerks or sparks. . They came through the steppe grounds without any step-sounds. They came to the rightmost places in the rightmost times. They rang no bell but sang the tale of the life’s sweetest chimes. And in the times they sang the hymns through the door of “the Four” of the force and through the force of the mores. In the crowd but not aloud washing off the pains of chains they reigned the rains of the gain that is for every now and then. “When they came, in what name, to play their part in the eternal game? In which spots?” Question lots. They may say or may not say who are they, where, when or for what not they are they. I too do not say, but the way I see thy came. All the way I dissent to frame them by giving name. But all way long I see them in the rightmost places in the rightmost times – they ring no bell but sing the tale of the life’s sweetest chimes. All way long all along I see them singing amongst the endless mundane song – “So long you care for others too, What you do goes not wrong.” Parabola- 7. Tiny cloud is not proud of the gains that it rains all through the ways but never sways to bade the rays that never fade to its shades of the grades of the blades of lights in the nights of mights without sights the knights who bright the lights of the sights that bring in the singing bird and “the Third” of the four to open the door on the shore of the sea of sights of rights to bring in flights of the singing lights to fly high in the sky where glow the lights in their flows and flights mingling in the song they sing for the days yet to come in gruesome times without chimes of sublime and that’s why cannot fly high in the sky to grow in and out within and without the pledge of the age to grow and grow through the flows that flow through the shapes of the grapes of mind in the kind of its own that is grown by the toils out of soils of the finest grains of the brains that neither pain nor enchain the flowers and the growers to bring in the songs to sing to ring the flow to grow that grows and grows to flow the flows that never lows in their sights for sites or mights without rights but bring in the singing lights that never fight but for saving the eternal rights that’s growing forever through the flowing lights of sublime sense of immense Time-paradigm of the timely chimes of time that shrouds the crowds of the proudest prouds and knows that the tiny cloud never becomes proud of the rains that it gains or the gains that it rains though it may shine in the shades of “the Nine of the shrine” though knows the ways as they may say to sway the ways to grow the flows for bringing in the singing lights singing in and over the shrine of “the Nine of the shrine” – “What is mine, in this shrine Where we believe to live ! Believe ! We live to leave and relieve to relive.” Parabola- 8. Talks that shock and the talks that rock, talks that chalk and talks that block the talks that talk of talks to shock and rock that chalk and block the talks for the lights of enlightening sights of rightful mights that ever bright to end the blights that blight the growths of rightmost sights and oaths of lights that never fight but for the rightful rights of the lights and sights that sees through the nights of the mundane sights and sows in to grow in and to flower out the flowers and growers of the eternal lights of sights rights and mights through the sites that ignite the sparks of thought to the lots of spots that are trying to grow in the flow of lights that grow the flow through the highs and lows of the glows in the mundane sky that fly so high not to sigh or shy to face the race of races for graces to leave traces of the times and places that embrace out and in that had been and will ever be in the sea of lights that we seldom see in the spree to flower the flows that never slows to sway on its way to the eternal light that forever brights to give to the mundane flights the lights, sights, rights and mights. Talks that shock and chalk the rocks that block the talks for thought-rays that never sway on their ways to bring in the days of the singing lights that fight the sparks of darks by engaging the gazing skylarks who sparks the days to come in through the mundane songs they use to sing through the rings of time of the sublime chime that bring in the singing rhymes and hymns that may for ever be in the waves that paves the flights of the sea of lights that we seldom see in the spree of the growers to grow the things that bring the things to grow and flow the growers and flowers of humane-lights that never fight but for the utmost lights of the rightmost sights of the rights and flow in and out without doubts the glow that flows and grows through the rows to row the seeds to sow in the flows of flowers and growers of chimes of time that never ends neither bends down before the matters’ force that enforces the courses that matters to matters that scatter through the earth the paths to the shiny lawns of the mundane dawns of the bygone dragons that drag on triogon, quadragon, pentagon, hexagon, octagon, decagon, centigon and so on to the shapes of the grapes of thoughts that grows in lots of spots and blot in the lot of lots of the spots thriving to grow out the flow of the flowers of growers of the things that bring the time to sing the timely chime of sublime songs that forever shines – “What’s not mine, in this shrine Where we believe to live ! Believe ! We live to relieve and leave to relive.” Parabola- 9. Cloaks of clocks who never lock the talks to light the sight to see though the sea of clocks of cloaks that flock the rocks that chalk to shock or block the talk of the time through the chime of the paradigm that ever grew in the old and new by a few who never new their dues to be done to the dews of a winter dawn though they too grew to go through the lawns and lanes of the dawns that are yet to be drawn on time’s page of the age that cages the sages and guesses their guilt through the gates of mind-sets that were built by the rightful sights but by the needs that bleed the creed throughout ages by crazes that sledge the thought of the lots of the spots where millions flowers grow to the flow of the flowers of growers of the light to lead the seed and breed the humane-light through the mundane nights of the greed’s grids that bigget the biggest human needs to a scale that often fail to tell the ever agreed needs to seed and breed the creed that’s not haunted by the greed though goes by the flocks of clocks that brings the rings of lights that sings up the flights of the rightmost sights of the time out of the paradigm of greed and needs that are so far needed indeed to breed through the seeds of the creed of the light of sights of wrong and right to light the mundane nights that darkens over nights the sights of wrongs and rights that highlights the high lights not through fights but through enlightening the lights of sights that flow to grow the growers of the flowers of the flows of people to grow in and out without doubt to be condemned in the further times that give the timely chimes of times through the hymns and rhymes from time to times without clocks not to lock, shock, block or rock but to talks for flocks altogether to gather all together to gather. Runs the clocks and the flocks of the cloaks as run the space in its race to trace itself in the shelf of pace’s sea hill on the heel of the tiny wheel of the time of the sweetest chimes that comes out of times paradigm of time-space in the race for the grace of the phase of the base of time that’s grown in sublime chimes of times time to time through the clocks and the cloaks of the flocks that never block the shocks to rocks but chalk the talks to block the shock that rocks the clocks of the flocks of the time to pave the waves of behaves on behalves of those who halves and be haves though there are millions who do not have any of the halves of the hubs on behalves of the though their behaves too have all the goods to breed the seeds of the creed and indeed the halves in the hubs they too need to breed the seeds of the grids for the times of needs that run the clocks, flocks, cloaks and the strokes of the spokes of space that forever races in its paces of races of races that traces and places the race in its rightmost place for the brightest grace of the best time and space of the endless paradigm of space-time. Parabola- 10. The forms of norms that perform through the forms of preformed storms with the norms of forms that informs you whereabouts about the shouts that you fear to hear far or near the storms of the forms of norms that shuts the huts of the doors of newer mores not for all but for only few of the new doors to cores to enforce the forms of norms that had ever been to form in the norms of forms without bounds of grounds that round the rounds of grounds of norms of forms where forms the norms that apt to form up to forms of norms of the pace of time-race for space to perform the performed storms of the forms and norms out of the things that seldom bring the rings of the rounds that are found in the bounds of the grounds that seed the creed that breed out newer times out of times without forms to perform the norms of forms that form in the paradigm of space-time. The pre-forms of norms of forms that forms out of norms to form the norms performed through the chimes of times that bring in lights of sights of the rightmost knights of lights with the rightful mights of rights and never fights on life-way but never sway to reach, preach, teach, or to breach the goals of the roles of the rolls of the souls that care and share the lights of the sights that mark the darks that spark its chime for the time and sublime that sing to bring the rings of wings so high to fly in the sky that always have the lights of the nights that are there everywhere in life-sea that one may see within the pace of time-space that face the phase and leaves the leaves of traces of paces of the race for the phases of races of the faces for graces that trace more or less the rightmost places and phases of faces and the races of the races for the traces of graces that more or less place the race in its proper place of the phase and time for the proper chime of time to get through the doors of mores of the fours of the force that endorse the doors for the mores of the doors’ source of shore’s shores offshore and to bring in the songs to sing more of the timely chime of sublime in its height, albeit the of timely chime is but the rhyme of sublime-hymn that brings in the rings of the chimeful times to sing in the singing rings of the rhyme-less times of the hymn of sublime – So long you are cared for by others too, and they and you know too why-what-when-where-how to do, Letting to go through the doors of time is no sin, it’s no crime. “Tantus et purturbatae mentis, et sedibus suis pulsae furor, ut sic dii placentur, quemadmodum ne hominess quidem sae viunt” St. Augustine, City of God, vi., 10 [So great is the fury and madness of troubled minds when once displaced from the seat of reason: as if the gods should be appeased with what even men are not so mad as to approve.] Parabola- 11. Pens that rains the gains in spite of the pains that drain the brains of soil that toil for the coils of life that foil the toil that they carry with them beneath the frames of the names that never game but is gamed by the flame of blame-game that take place to redress the pains of enchained faces of places but never traces the paces to readdress the phases of races that cases the faces loved by time to end the crimes with no doubt through the paradigms of in and out of forms or norms of the storms that grows in the thin and flows to grow in the glows of the flows of time with the sublime-light of the rightmost mights that seldom fights but in the nights of sparks of darks all along in the silent zone of the grown that are yet to grow in the flow of growers of flowers of the flows that never slows the pace in the race of races for graces that comes from within to bring the songs yet to sing in the rains of the gains that never pain or enchain the brains to move the pens but to remove the pains of chains and chains of pains to bring the ring of the rains of gains through the mundane gains of mundane rains. Parabola- 12. Tiny cloud is not proud for raining rains, nor is it in itself split out of chains of the pains that gives no gains or the shiny days, all the ways the tiny cloud moves on and on through the nights and days – not the nights nor the days known to us and to you, not the nights or the days of mundane-due, nor the days or the nights of orchid-dew, but the nights and the days of the past gently waving on the time-ship’s mast – days of sights through the nights of days in the ways the clouds may find the cloudly days and nights of some other kind of some other types of shades of some other lights that brighten up the way of the tiny cloud on its mundane flight – lights of sea that we may not see and the lights of green of places over which it had been, sea of lights yet to see by the mundane sight and the lights of sparking darks that are on their flight through the cosmic night – carrying in all the lights of its way the tiny cloud softly makes its way through the crowd of clouds of endless lights, the tiny cloud makes its flight to shine ever bright. Tiny cloud is not proud for chaining pains , nor is it in itself split out to gain the rains or to rain the gains of rains that rain down the gains and wash off the pains of rains to bring down to earth the mundane ways of softening up the mundane nights and days, through its ways tiny cloud flights the lights on the ways and reads the much he may read the news and views of the muse as may be found on the ground on the morning-evening dues listed on the news of the orchid dews and through the cues it makes its flight through the night yet not proud the tiny cloud passes through the stars with the shiny verse of a song that it brings but never sings out to make others sing the song of the tiny cloud with the shiny verse of the song – “So long you care for others too, what you do goes not wrong” Tiny cloud is not proud of its way on its way but never sway basing on what others may say through the way though listens to all but to share as they say to care in their ways and always the tiny cloud passes through the crowds of the clouds – some of them singing soft, some talking mild, some wild and loud – the tiny cloud passes through the crowd of the clouds and through the doors of time it carries in its own mundane chimes and verse through the clouds and stars the tiny cloud makes its way but never sways on the way the tiny cloud, the shiny cloud is humble, tiny and is thin enough to grow from within – from with in or out ? none may say without doubt about the tiny clouds what-when-where about – in or out, the tiny cloud cares not about that sort of things but brings in the songs to sing in or out the tiny cloud and its chime through the time flows to grow to bring and sing the song of gains that rain the rain of gains washing off the pains of chains and chains of pains – the song of rains – the song that ties up the clouds listening, whispering, singing mild, talking soft, loud and wild altogether to gather all together and to say –“Small or tall, let us all be free of proud and listen the Tiny Cloud for the song that he brings and sings within. Small and tall, let us all sing free of proud with the Tiny Cloud who brings the song- “So long you care for others too what you do goes not wrong So long you are sure of others caring for all and you too, don’t think ’em wrong. ” “Non equidem hoc studio, bullatis ut mihi nugis, pagina turges cat …….secreti loquimur :” Persius, Sat., Vol.-XIX [I study not to make my pages swell with empty trifles; you and I are talking in private!] Parabola-13. This is the ground that I found to sow the seeds of the creed that breeds in and out far about the doors of mores yet to grow, so, it’s the ground I never bound to be solely mine. If you found on your round the same ground surely that’s too fine. It’s my mores of the doors to let you come through the doors of some given mores of words’ sum, it’s the lump sump of some things of the things of same thing that I bring to you on my way and in my way. Have you got the dots of thoughts in your way on your way ? The way you got, the way I brought and the way they are never the same, may be near or far away from them and yet too far as they are, as the mar march in you, me and the pace of time-space that we leave and live. So, leave the leaves of believes that don’t relieve and relive to relieve and let others live. The way I live to relieve minds from chains of kinds are the doors of the mores to go through the timely chimes of minds of mine and that of yours. The mores we leave, the mores we live to bring the mores yet to come, the doors we leave behind the doors of mores not to find, the mind that they try to bind by the chains of gains or pains may by the mundane rains wash off the pains of chains and chains of pains, the gains it gain by freeing out of pain and by pulling off the chains of the unjust mores’ scare-crows, the seeds it breeds for the creeds, the trees it grows, the paces it places in the races of the time ever to flow – are but for all, and for you and mine. You too knew the very same game ! surely that’s too fine, as then you too are amongst the few of those who may read – so read again and again without pain this chain-seed that breeds in it its own creed to seed back and forth the fourth of the mores of doors of the Four of force. The doors you go to grow the mores you know to flow on your way to the Four many bows and the force all grows the much as they may in their way to the force of Four as before through the doors of mores that we all do go to go to the goals to go are but the mores of the Four of doors of mores of force and force of mores to grow and let all grow. So grow to grow in and out of the why-what-when-where about without and within the thin of the finest seeds of the creed that forever breed the seed of the force of doors of the Four or more of the mores of doors that we all have to pass through. As all did, do and shall, so do also we, they and you too. And feel the ground that we found to be of its kind to find our ties, it’s the way that never sway towards the life that seldom dies. Feel the mind that we find to be the same though far we are in the frame of time-space and in the pace of forms and norms and names, but the mind is the same as we found to be the ground to breed the seed of the creed of the best of the creeds as we found all way round through the bounds of boundless bound of same grounds we endorse the doors, force and mores to reach all to preach their, your and mine and to recourse the courses of discourses to course our minds to the shores of cores of the source. Feel into the depth of mind, my mind, yes ! it’s the soul – amongst the sole goals of all the goals is the soul. In time-frame, the body, mind, norms and forms are the grounds of the force and doors that all have to grow and let others grow to flow and to pass through. As all did, do and shall, so do also we, they and you too. Parabola-14. Love not me, love not me, O ! my love, love not me, nor my name. Love not me, love not me, love not the shadows of the flame. But do love, O ! my love, you have to love the sharpest flames of life-game that, you know, forever flow through all of us. The chorus in the core of us that we contain in the chorus chime of time’s best rhymes that for ever been. Love not me, not my name, do not love the outer crust, but do love the thrust to love that ever last. Love not me, not my name, nor the fame gained by the way, but love the lovely love for works that never sway. What others may think or say care a bit for that anyway, but do care and care to share the much you can on your way. Love not me, nor the songs that grate the wrongs to the bound, but love the times that showered the chimes not ever found. Love not me, not my self, nor my mind, but do love as you have to love the humankind. Love to love, O ! my love, love to love the love to share and dare to love, O ! my love, and care for the souls who care to share. Love not me, the me they see, love not the greens that are on the scenes, but love the love, O ! my love, love the love of life for life that forever been. Love not me, nor the way I had to play the given role, but love to love my love that you have to love, love my goal, O ! holy soul. Love not me, or the eyes you may or may not see, but love the skies where fly the eyes of this ‘lonely crowd’ of life- sea. Love not me nor the arts – they are but the ways to say, but love to love the ways of love that I may, but never say. Love not me, the me you see in the mundane sea of life in the highs and lows, but love to love my love for the people who love the love that grows and flows. Love not me, nor the mind that you do read, but love to find the seed that breed the seeds of creeds. Love not me, nor the gains or the pains, but love my love for the love of the loveful mundane rains that sing all along the rainy song – “Shall come I The way we do Through the doors in them, us and you. Shall come you The way we did Through the doors of seeds of the highest creed. Shall come we As we are Through the doors within, near and far.” “Ipsa consuetudo assentiendi Periculosa esse videtur, et lubrica;” Cicero, Acad., ii., 21 [The very custom of assenting seems to be dangerous and slippery.] Parabola-15. The eyes see not the seas, sees the mind. It’s the mind to see the sea that calls behind to see the shades of the waves that never rest but till the clouds shower their best for the trees. The mind sees the seas full of lives and full of rays of the ways that the lives do live – the mind says, “It is azurite blue shine” – the eyes believe to live the ways to relieve and relive. Leave the leaves to live believe, believe to live through the pages of ages of you and mine, and mind the minds of all its kinds in the way you find – mind it’s the shrine where lived, live and to live millions sages of the ages who come to grow and sow the seeds of creeds’ learning through the burning pages of ages to bind the minds in all the kinds in the way you find. Mind the minds of the greenest, greatest and kindest kinds that find and bind the minds of all kinds in the ways to do the ways that rays in thousands ways that all knew but yet are the newest new. Mind the minds of the greatest minds of their kinds that find and bind millions minds through the sea that you may or may not see. Mind the minds who find and bind the millions minds by putting the life-sea yet to see before us, them, you and me. And see the seas, as they too see many of us, them, you and me. “It’s my way to say that they may say in their ways in millions ways.” He told you – a handful few tales that you too knew about the life-seas. He sees the seas through the minds – the seas where all try to rise as that’s wise. He sees the seas and seizes the shines of the shrines into the slightest sightless eyes. Now the mind is searching a bit behind and asking to find the theme – is it the sea to see, or the way to see the sea ? The leaves of believes lived by sages of ages or the pages of ages ? Minds of kinds or kinds of minds ? The ways or their rays ? Is it the shines or shrines of sublime chime in time through sublime shining nowhere again so high, or is it the mind-shrine where live we, they, you and I ? “justa pari premitur veluti cum pondere libra, Prona, nec hac plus parte sedet, nec surgit ab illa.” Tibullus, iv., 41 [As a just balance pressed with equal weight, neither dips nor rises on either sides.] Parabola-16. Tiny mirrors of shiny mirrors on the hall, shiny mirrors of tiny mirrors make the call, thinking a bout about the forces that recourse the courses to bring the chain of the gains freeing from the pains of coils of toils in a life mundane. Linking the bout about the forces abound that in the days passes off through the masses of bright sunrays thinking about to make use of many of them linking round the doors of force in a different name. Names differ but so far the force do come, some when less but some when more than the sum, somewhere less and somewhere more than the sum of the some that came ago, some come to go, some yet to come to do the sum in the way done by all and not by the some. Tiny mirrors, shiny mirrors on the hall, shiny mirrors, tiny mirrors, make the call - “Silver night in the sightless sight Of the crowds that proud not right. Silent crowd once think aloud in the days That seldom pays the wage of the age to work through life-ways.” “Infirmum Dei fortius est hominibus: et stultum Dei sapientius est hominibus.” I. Corinthians, i., 25 [For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weaknesses of God are stronger than men.] Parabola-17. Knot the not-s of the spots where lots don’t go, plot the slots of the blots that Helots don’t sow. Sow the rows and know the toes that foes don’t do, row the lows of the flows and grow the “know”-s that should you. Grains of rains will wash the pains of the body and the mind. Chains of gain every now and then should not be able to make you blind. Mind the kinds of the finds behind and sow the rows of body, soul and mind. Rains of grains will free the brains and will tie the gains yet to find. Rains of gains will break the chains that have blinded many a mind. Mind not ever to mind the kinds that causes for minds with sores of hurts. Bet to wait on your fate at any rate to open the gate for the heartfelt heart of hearts. Knot the lots of the spots that never blot with mundane change. Range away the range of avenge that shadows like the stone-henge. Net the late-s of alike fate to get through their simile-gates. Don’t let the gates to do the fates and slate the plates of newer dates. “Dates get the gates albeit to bet the fates on the due most day. ” they may say, but never sway on the way to reach the gates of the shrines of Tibet. Reach it in your way. Not the lots, but the thoughts of Helots and sages, drew the cue of the foremost few in all ages. Fast and slow, the time may flow, through the waves of the time. Burst to glow, the chimes of times flow, grow slow in the soundless rhyme. Chime the time, in sublime of the lots. Spot the dots of blots of the knots of saintly thoughts. Slot the plots of the lots where the Helots cannot go to blow the dots of the not-s with the knots that forever grow. “But could youth lost, and love still breed, Had joys no date nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move, To live with thee and be thy love.” - Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd, Sir Walter Ralegh. Parabola-18a. The water sings, the water sings to the sky. The tiny creek sings a loveful song all way long – a loveful song. The song contains the chimes of pains and of gains. Pains of bound in a crackling sound waves for long all way long – lonely creek’s streamy song – the song of pains, the song of gains. Gains that regained again and again by the singing monsoon-rains. Rains that come in the days, rains that come in the nights. Rains that bring the darkest sparks of the brightest lights. The creek spares a little of its chimes for rights or wrongs. And all through the lifetime sings its sweetest mundane songs. The darkest hue of the finest blue of the sky pays its due to the loveful song that he for long knew to be amongst the finest few. The greenest green of the forest’s breast whispers in joy the farthest time. The time that contains in the pains, gains, and the oldest chimes. The joyful whistles of the muses of the birds are too with the song acting like rhythmic guards. The finest hue of the furthest blue drinks in the sunrays and takes birth anew – knew not they, as they drink the sunrays in, they will become emerald green. Green that no man made or makes but is made by the suns and the lakes. Life around and life abound, lives around like the creek’s lively sound. Lively sound ! or the lovely song ! which of the terms goes right and which goes wrong ? A song that makes the life full of sounds and brings down heavenly chimes on the mundane grounds. He went through the village skirt and up the stream, and reached the land of joyous dreams. The deepest of the inmost themes sparks in him like the morning sun beams. Beams that wave up in the sublime sky where unite the life’s they, s/he, you and I. Far more high in that sublime sky, flies his mind, mind flies and flies. High and high in the bluest sky he rises to where the shy clods fly. Clouds of songs and clouds of mundane pains, clouds of rains full of gains. They say to him about the greenest lake, where once in a galaxy-year, a man partake to bath with the finest of the bests of the muse. Nothing new with the things he knew other than this one of the cloud-world’s news. One in a year can partake in the bath of the greenest lake with the best of the loveliest muses, and will live there so long the autumn dawn will pay its dues to the stream-side morning dews. And, if the muse is pleased to sing the rain-song in a way that does not go too far wrong, the man will gain the muse again and then up to the last days of the spring-rain. The eldest of the clouds speak to him clear and loud – “You may be proud to win the entrance here, where lively lives share and care. But free man ! what to fear ? I am sure that you are the man of the year. The trees voted for you, and the joyful birds did too. The streams and we, the clouds all have made the choice – and the one is you. May be you knew not, or may be you knew, that, you were supported also by the rain-songs and their color-bow too. You’ve been spoken to by the butterflies, beetles and ants, and have gained the votes of the softest plants. The shiny green tiny herbs and the sunrays with their waves and curves – all voted for you, and the secret news is that you are chosen by the best and the loveliest muse. And not to say, but say must I, that the muse has given a choice of preference for you without shy. Surely you are the man who deserves all these gains. And, without pains I guess that you will be there up to the next monsoon rains. Then why do fear ! O! the best of thinking men ! Cheers for the gains ! Let us cheer !” Parabola-18b. The man – humble, laborious, honest and meek, passed through the dreamy stream and the tiny shiny creek. Passing through the emerald greens of the mountain forest, he sat by the shiny creek to take a rest. Most laborious and honest of the time is the man with the broadest chest. And it was the dusk and the evening stars’ sparkling light in the beginning of the mundane lively night. It was the tranquil darks of far and nears – the dark that in itself fades and blurs. It was the shades of the starry night that caused in him a dreamy flight that creeps down to him in the sleep and takes him to the dream-house’s inside and deep. The farthest sky sang to him the oldest of the songs, the pulsars pulsed to him about the rights and wrongs. The southern breeze pulsated on his eyelids to deepen the dream – the dream that is dreamt only by the side of a mundane stream. The blooming clouds swam past him and the night, and the moon tried to bright up the light of the mundane sight. The mundane tales, that no one tells, of the nights that shine the dream of a humble man sleeping by the side of a mundane stream. Near and far, are the lights of the silver moonlit nights. And the moon, imbued in the clouds shown up for ever bright the lights. Never the children of the earth did fear to bath into the moonlight of this part of the year. Since the time they lived sublime waves of the caves, to drink up the melted moonlight, they were the braves. They were the braves to come out and let them flow into the silver-moon’s cloud imbued glow. Glow that flow like the cascade bright like the milk, smooth and wavy like the finest of the muslin silk. Since the men live in the farthest nights they bathed in such silver moon’s silky lights. Lights not bright but the smoothest of the light that may shine up on earth, the mundane lives’ mundane nights. Nights that fight all the chains and mundane pains. Nights that write the rightmost thoughts in the brains. Nights that fight right and bright the unjust plights. Nights that bright up the lights to pave the way to the rightmost mights of the sights. Sights that see in the darks all the way through the rays of the finest days that never sway. Nights that bright up the rightmost ways of rains of gains. Up and below, shines up the silky lights of the silver moonlit night. Shines up bright the softest moon now far and near. All the brave came out of the cave, but with a few of them came the fights to fear. Nights of sights of light so bright with silent gains. Lights of nights with a sight so bright whispers to wash off all the mundane pains. Parabola-18c. Sleeps not he, sleeps not he, but he too dreams – the waves of dreams flows through him like the mountain streams. “I cannot see the sea my love, you know, but I can feel. I can feel the gentle wind that grinds the waves and paves the way for the newer waves yet to bring them in and to sing the mundane songs yet to bring. I cannot see the sea my love !” said he , “but I can feel the sea as you see. I can feel , my love! It’s full of warmth and waves and it paves the streams of dreams.” He hold her palms and whispers a part of King Solomon’s psalms – “ For lo the winter is past The rain is over and gone, The flowers appear on the earth, The time of the singing birds has come, Arise, oh my favourite, my dove, And, come.” The breeze and wave-chime concords his whispers and carry them far. The clouds are full of gains of rains born out of pains of the sea. The sea may or may not see the rain to contain the seeds of gains for grains. The shiny sky washed off the last bits of the color shades that it had shed through the would be shiny day yet to come again and to fade on the azurite bed of sea - a sea to talk for, a sea to see. The strengths and lengths of sea on the eyes that couldn’t see the sea. The shines of the glaze that rise in the hottest sea-noon, the shines of the bless that praise for life when it’s a full-moon, the glows of the colour flows of after-rain bows that goes away soon, and the norms of the crudest storms that forms in the South-sea and reforms the life-forms of far away lagoons, and the smells of thousands flowers that blush and bloom everyday. The curls of pearls that colour the girls and bring the way out of a time-waved taboo about the girls who too are like the pearls as the smile they smile are born out of pain and bound by chains of the taboo. And the sea-rivers that sing their sweetest songs all the way, and the flower-seeds that breed the creeds of the timely rhyme that blooms out of a mundane sublime chime. Should he leave the leaves to live and make believe and relieve the souls to relive the goal for the whole to become one seen by none as a one in the round that’s to be found not around but within in the dense tense and sense that rains the leaves of believes in the shiny green that relieves the doors of force more and more of mores that spring out and moves about the sense of tense to get the fate and bait the same in the game of the doors to pass by the mass that never see the sea that leaves believes to relieve the leaves that never fall but in all sow and grow in oceans of motions that blow the flow of time in sublime of the days that show the ways to full-moon night and bring in light that never fades in shades but breed the seed of the creed that may read itself and the time and in sublime build the guild and the vaults that never halt to grow the salt out of sublime sea that is not to see but to have the taste of the best things to do the due out of the dues that come as the news out of time ! “Et nihil hoc ad nos, qui coitu conjugioque Corporis atque animae consistimus uniter apti.” Lucretius, iii., 857 [That is nothing to us whose being solely consists in the strict union of body and soul.] Parabola-19. There been the emerald green city – Koh, that very few know so to grow the roads named thoughts of eternal knots that bind the roads but loads them none like the rays of the sun mingles in zingles of colours’ home to roam around all abound everywhere near and far all way long all along millions more of crores of crore but all in a row, there is the emerald green city – Koh, that is known by a few of old and new whoever may grew to see the flow of selves and rivers in reverse of the sky flying high springs of colour-rings in the tricks of creeks around the azurite sea that the luckiest see above the emerald ground where the sweetest chimes and sounds of times round around the shiny streams that are seldom found in dreams of the thoughtful purest minds in a pace to face itself in the self of the same but of other kind when far behind calls away the way of the mundane life like a lone-island in the waves and colours of pace dancing face to face everywhere near and far all way long all along millions more of the cores of core, but all to grow and flow to go to the city –Koh, that very few know so to grow the roads named thoughts of eternal knots that bind the roads and then spread all of them like a thread of the finest taste of Muslin to bring in the singing scents of talents of the rarest of the full-moon nights that flights through the sight of sites to bring the most bright of the tranquil rays of the cosmic days without sun to round the run of run for paces of orbit-races that albeit trace the phase of none to leave behind anything the eyes may find to keep in mind to name mind-roads without loads that flows in and out all about to grow out and in the city – Koh, where they’ve been for so long all along their life-tour’s way as they may grow and flow like the chime of time on a tiny shiny wheel that by the skillful reel feel itself to fill the self by taking in the lights around that it found to round the sights that see the sea of hues of the dues of the dews drowned in azurite blues and the bluest hues of the sky that belong all along so near but far near and far all way long to its self that it may feel and so reel in and out all about to refill the flows of glows in and out all about the emerald green city – Koh, that is even known to a few of old and new whoever there may grow to see the flow of selves and rivers in reverse of the sky where fly so high the springs of the colour rings of springs in the tricks of creeks around the azurite sea that the luckiest see above the emerald ground where the sweetest grounds of sounds of timely chimes round around the rounds of shiny streams that are seldom found in dreams of the thoughtful purest minds of some of the kinds in a pace that face itself in the other-self of the others of same kind when far behind far a way falls away the mundane life like a lone-island in the waves that pave the sea-doors of either-or-s of neither-nor-s’ traces of graces of pace of race dancing phase by phase to face the phase near and far everywhere. Far and near – everywhere – near and far. “Quod …. Mutatur …….. dissolvitur; interit ergo; Trajicuntur enim partes atque ordine migrant.” Lucretius, iii., 756 [What is changed is dissolved, and therefore perishes; the parts are separated, and depart from their order.] Parabola-20. Neither nor-s for the Or-s of either-or of the nor-s forge the force of the force of the doors that lock the force of the mores of force that blocks the doors that locks the force of the mores of the Four to open more of the doors of force of mores found to be bound by shores offshore. Roars the time and its doors to the cores of mores to force the doors to change the mores of force and doors to unlock the force of mores – mores of force that block the doors to force the talk to lock the talks to chalk the rocks of blocks to rock the chalks of talks to rock the blocks that grows in ranks and rows in the highs and lows that flow in and out round around without bound. Bounds that rounds around the grounds’ sounds to be found in notions of motions of nations in the fashions of notions of the time to get the chime of the rhyme of motions – rounds that bound the grounds of motions of notions that goes far a way far away for a way to the cosmic ray that may play in the poles of souls the motion that grows and rolls so high in the sky where fly the minds of the kinds that gives the way of the ray that may stay in the way but never sway to go a way that brings the days out of dark to spark the thought of knot to bind the lot of the lots of