Sycophants.
That Great Tree burns all around us.
Can you smell it?
Can you sense the presence?
That Great Old One, that Great Old Tree burns.
Beckons.
It's smoke rises up and crosses the sky 4-fold.
No bombs may stop it.
A fate lined delusion, to which, even the children succumb.

On the ground and among the spit and slander is the shelter of wisdom.

This must be so.
>>>The waves build and grow on one another.

NO MOUNTAIN BEFORE US CAN STOP OUR FLOOD.

Skins who claim to see are blind to themselves.
>>>The waves build and grow on those nearby.

NO MOUNTAIN BEFORE US CAN STOP OUR FLOOD.

Formless connected masses gather and execute their souls.
>>>The waves flood and spread their swirls.

NO MOUNTAIN BEFORE US CAN STOP OUR FLOOD.

On lookers below the pyramid find mercy in their death.
>>>>The waves spare nothing and the wall burns inside.

NO MOUNTAIN BEFORE US CAN STOP OUR FLOOD.

The tree smolders and finds union among the people of the AIR.
Few understand these images.
All will come to feel these images.
In beauty none will see it.

NO MOUNTAIN BEFORE US CAN STOP OUR GREAT FLOOD.

The infinite forms of the depths sprout new seeds upon the space where we may walk.
The path before us is along a prime meridian that none can follow.
The eternal eternal from whence we came.
And to which we will go.

This, all will know.