As a flute of incense smoke rises, it creates a veil on what lies beyond. Where do the origins of this mystic, sweet smelling, wafting and magical veil lie. In the hearts of a man sitting behind a wheel waiting for a fare, in the hearts of a man waiting for the rubbish van to come and collect disregarded bits of card, plastic and glass, in the whispers of this land, where the rain gently falls, cleansing, nourishing, carrying the souls of generations to the tinker of wind chimes.
Gently it floats up and up, in no rush, no need to hurry, like a deep meditative dance, twisting in rhymes, unchanged by the world in which it now belongs, unaffected by what lies beyond, it is deep within itself, with its true nature, bliss absolute.
Images made in Tawain.
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