If it is by our roots that our culture is to be weighed
Then we are doomed indeed
The primary Empire
The currency of the Emporium
Is rooted in escape from Imperial domination
Yet trunked in the biggest Imperial military ever seen
Is rooted in slaughter of indigenous tribes
Then in the slaughter of brothers
In Civil War
Is rooted in the smoke and mirror of CIA
Spinning nations for covert ends
Rooted in fear, never clear, until the keys of power
Are thrown away
The roots are always in the dark, fed with rotting manure
The vehicle of the world and species
Is mineral and vegetable

Animal spirits and Human spirits
How do we make sense of our vehicle?
How do we move in our vegetable crafts
To let the fruits of our actions, all that matters,
Be worth the sacrifices of all that matter?

The Spiritual gardeners
The tillers of the Soul Soil
The cleaners of the hands of time
That are merely soiled
They know how to move the Era through
How to graft the cutting of one time
Onto the trunk of our Common Tree.

One at a time
One person at a time
One cry at a time
One sob at a time
One heart at a time

Isa (Christ) is an Interior Seal
The Prophet (SA) is an Exterior Seal

The resenting grip is redeemed with knowledge
Of the wider purpose of the interior land.

If this world were only vehicle, harrowed furrow
Irony of “civil” war and revolution
Root and branch
What a mockery that would truly be

But it is a fruit garden
The harvest of our intended crop
The magic that invisibly
Keeps the massive engine turning

No story of money first ever ended well in history
There’s no escaping that
So, how to escape from Rumpelstiltskin yet again?

Simply know his name, that’s all, know his name
In you, the jailing fear that locks your freedom
Look inside, face it, and name it.

How?

Look back in my blog, to the post called “Book”.