43. TRIP TO IXTLAN (Carlos Castaneda) Olmec at night in the Tula desert under the shed in the long night kept from wild beasts small shed imperceptible open to the serene avoiding rats. to the east turning after inner silence
with peripheral vision alert
behind the haze a bridge weaving no border blazing towards the north trees covering the haze and the bridge at its end the north provoking you the darkness of the white the bridge lengthening stalking mature flush the haze a bridge weaving no border blazing towards the north trees covering the haze and the bridge at its end the north provoking you the darkness of the white the bridge lengthening stalking mature
and the sight in sting to breathe respect the bridge without edge for your feet entrust
However you see the depths under the bridge peace It does not matter anything stalk when you can see the other shore the night milk on the road behind the pleiades.
You go to infinity to meet him without fear, without decision free without ties you only see the feeling of the edge pull Towards the unknown the depths.
A deep feeling of loneliness the last the total full.
The melancholy of leaving their land its places its forests and small jungles and its great plains, peaks that can be seen from there behind the maroon and orange sunset sun from its turning corrugated glass. Controlled folly.
Surrounds the earth with its ventral embrace He pulls the strings from his string shell His luminous egg It rolls on the ground And turn and turn in dancing His last battle His dance of death No parting should be left to chance And the earth turns Against him embraces Dance and dance for joy The farewell for a native is the feast of his members His string brother ally in luminosity
Remembrance on the fly Everyone is passed on by their parents, their walks Its shops and its corn grains Your stone sales And their quartz. He says goodbye to everyone. Love stones Love his laps He loves his gourd. Transform for the try. I pass like another one However it is not the least important
He does not think Is silent And he's alone and only sees the warm rain And the water falling on his head And and the south where The eternal sun Falling over the central fountain In perpetuity.
But look at the precipice And feel the serpent in your spine, the crash of the din and a rope from his cave has pulled him His guts have rolled, Hieroglyphic atizans to some crouching turning around with the touch of death on his left shoulder On the clear ledge Climbing getting ready to spend the night.
Dream two gourds of water lurking.
