Destruction had fallen upon ancient times once filled with paradisiacal feels — mimicked god-like transference to peoples of power and servitude alike — all harmonious in daily events. Dragons called to clear the air, wiping out wars against those living a simple life, uncontrolled by czars and dictators analogous — like that of a bird right-winged and lefty Lucy making love in open-aired constructs for all to witness.

Pitting humanity and animal kingdoms against one another, dragons used against their fears of lost tranquility, caging them in a self-inflicting fortress not fit for the smallest of these. One brave soul, youngest of the lands, presents a new possibility of milk and honey as foretold by ancient texts before scribbled into words of way-finding truths.

Boats made of trees, wisdom carrying the first settlers before documented falsities of historical fact now overturned by elders coming forward, and the Promised Land waits. Crossing the seas, traveled believers with spirit-filled stories — Utopian societal beings living from sacredness, drinking from mother’s bosom — living naturally — nourishing mind-body-spirit — hanging their hats and calling it home.

Myths or factual data prove yet another group reaching westerly winds by winters waters bridge, two tribal bodies forming a triad unifying front. Those traveling by softened waves unifying those of hardened waters front, tender-hearten as one tilling — preparing the soils for future generations. Before the ‘first peoples’ were the first, cyclical teachings and argumentative thought about whether chicken arrived before the egg, henceforth binding hearts as one igniting the eighth and final flame.

Food grown upon liquids provided by headwaters of spirit itself, disbelief fed to the masses with conflicted continued battles of a thousand generations to come. Like an hourglass pivoting on zero-point energies, flipping switches of time itself before — after — observant being gifting present-day understanding. Fork in the road, collectively whole, self-insisting knowing of better ways, chosen path leading to the Promised Land — despair or paradisiacal as it was written a thousand times before.

Pale-faced as known not yet kissed by golden sun — never seeing the true light of day, set out with ill intent tainted by greedy destructive ways, awaiting the fate of two by four head smacks, awakening to better ways. Then and only then, approaching the path of least resistance, shall the final flame be lit — while the first settlers painfully await their growth into cosmic reciprocation.

One body — two as one — three as trinities holistic healing selves tending to their own, practicing mindfulness daily, whole-heartedly, acknowledging the four directions walking path within all sentient beings. Ever-expanding waves of first love self-conflicted sacred embodiment of all there is — four as nine — forging everlasting source of light tranquility, infinite flame strikes on the eighth spark of flinted shrubbery — holding space for those choosing to arrive.

Truthiness and falsities grow amidst the peoples yielding more confusion for beingness as carried in ancient satchels across open waterways of truth be known. Pain so great, falling bitters from bird kingdoms feathery worlds — bloodstained Canvas repeated offending centuries between who is right and wrong — until that day we lay down our lives for not knowing the cosmic extension of self fully.

In this final hour — eleventh sun as spoken — adjoining of hands of pale-faced and pigmented akin, whilst the struggles of the czar’s fatal attempt at squelching this uniting voice, they raise arms to another day bearing light handed down — sparks of ancient ones hidden deep within our global core. Self-reflecting on cellular reproduction, self-destruction — decaying of reptilian brains leading the way.

Ouch! Holy heck!

My brain devouring itself — closing in on a true understanding, “This is the Way, no secrets to be found — yet hidden within our hearts of understanding, we shall see the light of day.” The eighth flame was lit on sacred tunes, beginning the cyclical calendar of the Mayan peoples’ twenty-five thousand accords again.

~ Ani Po

Thank J.D. Harms and the whole Scrittura family for this wonderful prompt! Trying to intertwine the prophecy of the Eighth and final flame as told by the Anishinaabe peoples, first settlers of Canada and United States, with the first settlers before the first and the Mayan cyclical calendar beginning before time itself, carrying divine dichotomy of life into today.

Note: We still are unsure if the Bering Straight existed and argue against the stories of old, demolishing myths and story-lines of existence. As for me, the question still remains, “Does it really matter?” -Sparking further discussions. Whether the first nations came by boat, landing in the east, crossing a bridge made of ice or was their a first before the first? I think the essence of this story is how we come together as one family, abolishing the fighting amongst ourselves.

Much gratitude for those who take time to read, ponder and allow the inner workings of self to come forward. Grateful for the feedback, love shared, and more importantly the Dance with Inspiration. Deep Peace.

Joseph Lieungh