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"I marvel at the sight of a soul in prison with the key in its hand" -- Rumi
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Mage
by quill Friday, Jun 25 2010, 8:04pm
international / prose/poetry / literature

by reputation
a collector of souls
an indiscriminate thief,
a scurrilous deceiver
but a gardener by trade, pruning
brambles and thorn bushes
to facilitate the growth of something special
something exceptional
enduring,
fit for immortality.

all souls begin their journey
luminescent, radiant
without liability or
favour – equal in this universe
yet some grow stronger, brighter
while others begin to dim
until their light,
almost exhausted, is detected
by the gardener
and pruned – spent, wasted
lost forever;
infinite opportunities
squandered.

some souls by good fortune
or plain generosity
are offered another chance
to ascend toward the light.

lost souls may even encounter
the Mage, whose skills
(at retrieval)
are beyond compare
able to negotiate/navigate
the most complex
soul maze/spirit labyrinth
to locate the fading glimmer
of that golden flower.

separated from the dross,
accumulated by perversity,
the Mage carefully removes
that secret flower from the soul
and gently offers it, open-palmed,
to the cosmos;

unburdened,
that little flower awakens,
petals open
pistils quivering
in anticipation
of a passing body of light
a comet’s tail
that disperses
stardust as it passes.

bathed in this way
restored and in full vigour
that spark of soul,
the fertile flower
is given
another opportunity to
bloom,
bear fruit
and reach the stars.

[Fly, my Love,
FLY... ]

audio Sweet Virginia - Rolling Stones (Live '72)

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Sweet Virginia - (Lyrics)
by K. Richards, M. Jagger via fleet - Rolling Stones Sunday, Jun 27 2010, 8:00pm

Wadin' through the waste stormy winter,
And there's not a friend to help you through.
Tryin' to stop the waves behind your eyeballs,
Drop your reds, drop your greens and blues.

Thank you for your wine, California,
Thank you for your sweet and bitter fruits.
Yes I got the desert in my toenail
And I hid the speed inside my shoe.

But come on, come on down Sweet Virginia,
Come on, honey child, I beg of you.
Come on, come on down, you got it in ya.
Got to scrape the shit right off you shoes.

I want you to come on, come on down Sweet Virginia,
I want you, come on honey child, I beg of you
I want you, come on honey child you got it in you.
Got to scrape that shit right off you shoes.

© 1972 Mick Jagger, Keith Richards


 
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