The secret that whispers the secret

 

The secret that whispers the secret

How to write about the occurrence of circumstances, about the imaginary dream of lilies, or some poison corroding you while you are clogged by the object being pronounced and slowly separates me?

How could I be so blind to the secret entanglements that reverberate through the galaxy expanding in the left chest of the one who created and makes everything flourish?

One finger of our hands cannot handle the weight of a dry leaf falling from the greatest tree of good virtues that takes root in those who cultivate it.

A wind that lifts and shakes the mountains cannot torment a simple ant.

I repeat in saying what comes in the blooming, in reconnecting to what conceived you, being a drop returning to the ocean letting the being multiply into something greater than yourself.

The stories keep repeating, the rise of the chariots and the thunderous noise caused by the search to invade and disrespectfully destroy everything.

I'm writhing in my seat, remembering calm words and encounters that soften the soul, giving new meanings to achieving old objectives.
Will everything really be relative? The observer who observes the meaning and sees in himself the mirror reflecting everyone.

The trembling of the walls announces their temporary fall onto the ground, my right hand lights the candle and my body is taken to traverse a narrow and dark corridor.

At what moment will I arrive or depart, seeing time unraveling in its zeptosecond in the present, past, and future?

I ask questions seeking their respective answers, and I know that within the chest dwells a secret that is not a secret being kept, but paths to be traveled.