'Twixt fitful slumber and peaceful dream,
The world bears not the truth, it seems,
Of glorious origin and heritage rare;
The mystery of the here and there,
The whirling of an inner-glow
That whispers secrets much too low
To know their source or where they end;
Or if 'tis just a dream again?
A phantom thought, a heartfelt tugging,
Dark miasmic senses drugging,
A coming in and going out,
A dizzy whirling all about.
Awake, Awake! - But is it sleep?
Or cold reality you keep?
Determined that the so-real dream
Is nothing more than what it seems?
Turn inward to that magic sphere,
Let go of all that once seemed dear,
And let that wistful Voice be heard,
Oh! Listen to each whispered word:
...things really are not what they seem...
...'tis when "awake" that most you dream...
...'tis in your slumber that you see...
...the truth that Is reality...
And then at last, when wide awake,
The secret of that dream you break,
No more the "insomniac's sleep"
Will rob you of the hope you keep.
To see once clearly and for all!
To hear the whispers like a call!
To understand with senses clear!
Why, then you'll know the prize is near!
It can't be grasped by senses dull,
Nor while the things about you lull
You into thinking they are real;
The things you touch, and taste, and feel.
Nor while ambition stays your hand,
Nor even love of life and land,
(For all are products of that state,
That spellbind you and fascinate).
Like heavy chains about you bound,
They keep you fettered to the ground,
These things deny that you are free!
But only when you fail to see:
Illusion's games of time and places,
This and that, and people's faces;
All are anchors to your soul
That stay your foot when you would go.
Oh, what an utter travesty
For you who seek your soul to free
That finite thoughts and senses, too,
Refuse to free the soul of you!
These plastic baubles and their pleasures,
Offer you deceptive measures,
Than ever dreams are want to do,
And yet they seem so very true!
Where find the light for which you seek?
Well clearly, first, the realm of sleep
Shows contrast, which should say to you,
There is another truth, or two,
Which synthetic life failed to speak
In her resolve your soul to keep,
And that should serve at least as clue,
A greater truth now speaks to you!
Oh, how deluded you become
When playing Maya's fife and drum!
And so again you choose the dream
And find yourself within the stream
Of flavor, savor, joy and peace
Which slumber's balm alone release,
And then your spirit fairly soars
Amidst your real homeland once more!
-- Mirabel (from "Rays of the New Aeon")