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Prayer

Pater

Father’s love for son, spoken shall it be. 35 years he laboured worried how to secure his son’s place in the hereafter. Worrying so much he had forgot to live in the now. Love in the now, act in the now.

Throw your fears and prayers aside the Son screamed at him but he may as well have said nothing at all for daddy was too set in his ways to change a darned iota of his makeup. So instead as the universe had taught him, he made to convert every worry into a prayer.

Heavenly Father into your hands we commend our spirit. Into your keeping we give our spirit of fire. Into your fold we bring our weary limbs and torso. Into your magnificence we melt our niggles and cares. In exhorting your praise we deepen our fount of gratitude.

Pray we have time enough to spend on the shores of Ea. That we never stop communicating wherever life takes us or even if it tears us apart. Sweet does the water taste when your lips carry it to mine. Senses reel as I think back to your life and see how in so many places thou didst carry my frail limbs and spirit upon your back. Understand that there is no quit in you when it comes to standing by your family and doing the right thing.

I bid you tarry with us a while longer that I may set your heart and mind at ease. At ease with the message of love I bring, mirroring the love you and my mother bore me these swift 35 years. Now it is I carrying your frail limbs and tender spirit upon my back, a labour I dare not shirk from. A charge this heart fearlessly takes upon itself.

Thank you for housing my spirit these few moments when I was your prayers answered and you my unknown prayers fulfilled from the very start.

In the end, Yama comes for us all and it’s the Lord’s gift of mortality that makes us long to shuffle off this coil in our night. So shuffle it at will my dear father and be not afraid to look on life’s threshing floor that the seeds you sow bear fruit in the soil below and that I too shall blossom in my time and wane at end of my own life when it’s time for another cycle of the seasons to wear on.

The board is made ready.
And the fare, frugal and spare,
Is given with love.
Come, and dig your beak here, into the left side,
And tear out of its cage this smaller bird,
Whose wings can beat no more:
I would have it soar with you into the sky.
Come now, my friend, I am your host tonight,
And you my welcome guest.

Khalil Gibran – The dying man and the vulture

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