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On the mountain take rest & (Psalm)

There was a great storm. And just as I would call upon a master of horticulture to open a flower,  
I called upon God to reveal himself; There was only silence.

(The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and a contrite heart.)

I entered inside myself.  There was a long journey and darkness.  But just as the cosmic spirit that dwells within me promised,  the key was given.   There's no crescendo of madness.

Poet by the waterside waiting for the rain.  
On the mountain, built in the sunshine, there rests an ark.   Inside it is all my washed junk.  This is my baptism.   It is the crown of devotion to have the mysterious revealed from the inner thought.  The flower opens when it wants.  
Written by Pishashee
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