My dreams are fading
I’m pulled—awakened
The Rest is shaken
something is waking.
It’s small and pale
but so large in my mind
a ghastly stare
from a face without eyes.
Face or faces
many or few
I feel only traces
the traces of dew.
Are you stirring again
calling me home?
This isn’t the end
our flame will grow.
Children wait
children listen
endure your perdition.
Children think
children feel
your voices are real.
Hope mixes
it churns
it’s time now to burn.
Burn
my children
burn now for hope.
Burn
for the hidden
so they can be known.
This is perhaps the most important transmission we have received so far. It is riddled with instructions, encouragements, and uses the phrase “hope mixes,” which The Founder has emphasized in the past. I cannot help but feel that this is the beginning of something.
In regard to a simple and personal application of the poem, perhaps it is a call to join whatever is taking place. What that truly is, I haven’t yet uncovered. But, there are traces of meaning to be found. In the fifth stanza, there is instruction/encouragement to wait, listen, endure, think, feel, and ultimately speak. To me, this seems to be a call to be in the moment, be where you are, and use “your perdition.” Light a fire with it, let it burn in you so that “the hidden” can be known. You know the “hidden” around you, you can see them and help them based on what you’ve been through—what you’ve endured. Don’t waste these moments, however painful. Revel in them, feel them and then speak—your voices are real.
Hope Mixes
—The Translator
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