Infinite Silence of Being

The earth lies still today,
veiled in the silence of its own breath.
There is an absence that ripples through time,
a loneliness that does not cry, does not ache—
it simply is,
like the shadow beneath a lamp,
like dusk cradling an invisible fire.

Somewhere in this boundless quiet,
the heart still reaches for nectar—
yet finds itself bathed in fire instead,
not destruction, but purification,
each flame a syllable of forgotten truth.
That which was once longing becomes offering,
that which was once wound becomes worship.

Existence, so innocent, so unknowing,
moves without map or reason.
This affection, this endless affection—
it clings like a child to the dark corners of the sky,
believing love can outlast its own shadow.
So many expectations vanish here,
melting into the fabric of unlit spaces.
Desire after desire folds into the night,
and the heart learns
that even light can hunger for silence.

On the lips, a speechless language tries to form.
The silence itself becomes an utterance—
not absence but eloquence:
the rare song of those who no longer seek to sing.
Every wound of the past gleams quietly,
as if impurity had been merely another name for intensity.
Each memory breathes its residue of devotion—
devotion that refuses to end,
that murmurs even as centuries dissolve.

Ignorance stands unchanged—
ancient, tireless, immortal.
It wears the crown of beginninglessness.
This world—it has no origin, no edge;
it is both wound and wonder,
spinning its myths in circles of atoms.
Each letter of existence quivers
like a universe contained in sound,
a syllable dripping with creation’s fatigue.
Even language itself,
that restless child of consciousness,
seeks rest in meaninglessness.

The soul, undefeated, rises—
not towards victory,
but into stillness that cannot be conquered.
Faith becomes a mountain unmoved,
its peaks whispering to the blue infinity:
Here, even silence sings.
The sky answers with unnamed songs,
echoes of worlds unseen,
where invitation and refusal
are the same breath.

Expectation clings yet again—
not for what can be held,
but for what cannot die.
Perhaps the heart does not crave eternity;
perhaps it wishes only to dissolve
in something too vast to need remembering.
This endless space—
this unspoken sabbath of being—
it stretches beyond thought,
where time dares not trespass.

Tears turn radiant;
in their salt hides the taste of immortality.
In immortality lies surrender,
in surrender, a strange kind of grace.
Ego falls like a leaf surrendering wind,
so does pride, crumbling into dust.
Every fall is a gentle rehearsal of freedom.

Darkness has no beginning,
nor does it wish for an end.
It is the mother of all brilliance,
the first note of creation’s overture.
The eternal plays upon the strings of the unseen,
and every vibration births a world.
Letters themselves—the architecture of knowing—
turn sacred, burn golden.
They contain the rhythm of the Brahman,
the infinite trembling in each breath.

---

And so it begins again:
a search disguised as surrender,
a surrender disguised as dance.

In the garden of what-is,
each petal listens to its own unfolding.
Between life and its echo,
truth hums quietly,
like the drone beneath a raga
that never began and never ends.

What is this ache that feels divine?
The ache of stars that burn knowing they will vanish.
The ache of rivers that sing themselves into the sea.
The ache of love that loves knowing it cannot stay.
Every ache another name for eternity’s longing
to taste itself as finite.

Perhaps existence is but a mirror
and God only the reflection trembling before it—
a question asking itself again and again:
Who am I?
The answer comes in no language.
It comes as light softening on morning leaves,
as dust rising in a temple’s sun,
as the sound of the heart pausing
between two breaths.

---

Loneliness grows sacred in its own company.
It becomes the womb of awareness,
a silence pregnant with all beginnings.
Within it, thought dissolves,
the way mist dissolves into daylight.
Names fall away,
yet knowing deepens.
There is no “I” left to grasp,
only vastness aware of itself.

Once, the seeker begged for nectar.
Now, even poison tastes divine,
for there is no difference left
between sweetness and flame.
Fire blesses what it touches;
ashes become prayers.
Dust carries memory of the divine
better than gold ever could.

Each step along this invisible journey
is both descent and ascension.
Falling into the self feels like rising,
and rising feels like disappearing.
Mountains bow to clouds,
rivers to the sea,
and the soul bows to its own silence.

---

What is ignorance but an endless mirror
faced away from the light?
Turn it slightly—
and all becomes radiant.
This world does not need saving,
only seeing.
Everything dances in rhythm with its own imperfection—
a cosmic music beyond right and wrong.
We are the chorus and the listener,
the prayer and its echo.

A thousand lifetimes gather like waves.
They break, retreat, return.
No memory is lost; it merely changes color.
Every soul wears a cloak woven of forgotten moments,
stitched by longing, dyed in time.
Yet beneath it all,
the same pulse endures—
ancient, shared, indestructible.

The lips move again, but not for speech.
They tremble with remembrance,
the way a lotus trembles before opening.
Muteness becomes mantra,
sound returns to its source.
Within that motionless center—
all opposites embrace.
Life and death, ignorance and knowing,
form a single note expanding forever.

---

The eternal sky arches overhead—
not to contain, but to be.
No boundary holds it.
Each star burns a secret prayer,
each breeze carries names it will never repeat.
In that expanse,
even the forgotten stay luminous.

Expectation softens to acceptance,
acceptance melts into awe.
The heart opens not as act,
but as inevitability.
The infinite draws nearer not by distance,
but by recognition.
The cosmos whispers:
There was never separation,
only the imagination of twoness.

Unbidden, unannounced,
something vast stirs within—
the breath before the word,
the stillness before thought.
It asks no devotion,
for it is devotion itself.
It seeks no witness,
for it sees through every eye.

---

Light trembles in tears.
Tears tremble in light.
To be both is to be whole.
Mortality bows before its reflection—
immortality smiling quietly within the same eyes.
Across aeons and truths,
the dance continues,
eternal and breathless.

The flame that purifies does not consume.
It sings.
And within its song,
the ashes glow—
proof that endings are only transformations.

The dark, ancient and unborn,
wraps the cosmos in tender arms.
It is not enemy of light;
it is its oldest friend.
Together they weave existence—
warp and weft of boundless becoming.
Wherever the mind reaches,
creation echoes softly,
a hum without horizon.

---

Now, at the center of this endless play,
the soul stands silent—
a witness made of listening.
Neither seeking nor renouncing,
it simply is,
like the breeze over unseen oceans.
Every breath carries the memory
of what cannot be forgotten or found.

The end is no longer an event.
It is a state of surrender,
an intimacy with all that exists.
The flame and the drop,
the word and the silence,
the mortal tear and the immortal smile—
they merge into one continuum of grace.

Let it be known, then:
the essence of being is not knowledge,
but wonder.
And in that wonder,
the cosmos folds itself, again and again,
into the shape of a prayer
that needs no god to be sacred.

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