Turn,Turn,Turn...

…there is a season for everything I am reminded under heaven in Ecclesiastes:

3 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

² A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

³ A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

⁴ A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

⁵ A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

⁶ A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

⁷ A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

⁸ A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

Life on planet earth makes no exceptions—all are treated equally by fate—or rather perhaps by the “Will of God”. I know everything changes—so it must, yet  I have a great difficulty in facing change. I know it is for the benefit of the unfolding of spirit, of advancement of the soul, of expanding the vision of the heart. These things all have to happen as we progress towards the light. Yet, I cling to our burnt out relationship with a desperation that is almost like a need for oxygen, till eventually the very last spark dies—till the ashes have gone ice cold. Even then I still hold tightly in my hands the dying ambers of the remembrance of our love—until there is nothing left but faded grey dust that I cast to the wind.

The images, messages, the sounds of  “love`s time” that now, has passed into an other dimension, into eternity to live on without us, having its very own existence. A re-birth into a new world where it lives on forever—all that we have created out of our love. Our words that spoke of dreams dreamt in shadows of blue wisteria and purple jacarandas. We were the surrogates for angels dreaming their heavenly dreams; now all simply faded images of the past.

The pain pierces the heart like a lance; it weeps in sorrow at the loss of such precious times that were spent in the arms of love—now “through the open door love itself is gone”.  While an other love—like a beautiful rosebud is slowly opening with its dewy eyes, offering its new treasures, a new future and new hope.  It promises new memories, new  joys, new experiences—so weep no more my love, weep no more, be not sad for everything has a season, its own moments in the sun. We had it all, but allowed it to slip though our fingers while being mesmerised by its magic.

Treasure the magic, treasure the sweet reminders, treasure the memories always in your heart. Forget our sacred love "never". We are the lucky ones, the holy ones, the blessed ones—we have experienced  the very ecstasy, we experienced the actual essence of love. We are the soul of this supernova that has exploded--we are the myriads of pieces of light sparks flowing from its heart like a river. Only the light is now left; all that which we have created  through our communion of love--as it continues on it journey forever into infinity.

 -Firebird