I am Kritya. 
The intense word power,
which always moves along with the ultimate truth, which exists completely in accord with rightness.


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These days a word is becoming very popular, that is, "positive energy" everyone is talking about this energy, sometimes I feel that this word has become more popular and dangerous than atomic energy. Hang bells at your door; keep the table in this corner, bed in that comer, get up in the morning, smile at your own face. Do not look at bad things; the list goes on and on Ö.

My worry is that the slogan of positive energy is teaching us to keep away from dirty or bad things. It isn't giving the message to remove evil, but to keep away from evil. Keep away from the so-called bad things, and if at all you have to look at them, keep distance. Keep your home shut, so not even a signal of negative energy will dare to enter into your life, it is your life, not the society's.
I am not against positive power; I just want to know whether we can completely avoid this so-called negative power? Does it mean we should not think of the poor, about our people who are in trouble? Does it mean that we should not think about the numerous problems and difficulties in the world today?
Rati saxena
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From midnight to the dawn,
The forest is trembling inside me.
My trees are innocent,
Thirsty for milk,
Firm hands, and
The scent of effervesce.
I'm drinking my mint tea.
I'm bringing tranquility without aim,
And flowers for the vase.
When I look at it is never the same.
I'm starting to believe in a fertility of miracles.
Is there the flame, which could turn the heavens
Into the ashes?
Are there any hands to pick up my ripe apples?!
Tatjana Debeljacki
When I die, my body will be given to you.
You will examine my brain.
But you can not find the source of my insanity.
You will incise my eyes.
The surreal form of the world I saw
will be absent there.
You will cut my throat open.
But my song will not be revealed.
You will break my heart open.
Before that,
lightnings would have shifted their stay.
You will dissect my loins;
Its orgies will never be repeated.
You may cut up my legs and analyse in detail.
Balachandran Chullikkad
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M's mother was so beautiful her father hid her in a box. I choose to believe this version of a story even though reason compels me to question the existence of one such box. Wooden or steel. Details make it permanent.
Cement roofs do not entertain the reality of rain. Only when the curtain is drenched do you acknowledge it.
I am reminded of Jetsun, how after dipping her feet in the Ganges, thought she felt a little flutter in her head.
After my hands are washed, I undo my altar. The offered is erased from possession even as it remains.
After the dishes are put away, after the curtains are drawn, some woman will make love.
It is not the knowing but the moment after saying ab that pleases.
A ritual is a place of wisdom. In time you learn how much water exactly fills seven prayer bowls.
Somewhere must be a photo of M's mother. When I see it, I will understand why M never told me she jumped from a bridge and tried to take a Chinese soldier with her.

A lama said I was her reincarnation. I have the same underestimated will. ......
Tsering Wangmo Dhompa
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I go out with a trash bag in my hand
The lightís shut off and the starry sky

is dark as animal pelt and the stars
shine so brightly that I stop and stand still

My whole life long Iíve been gathering winter evenings
into this pale body

Now Iíve come to this evening
and stand here with garbage in my fist

and these starsí miraculous family
over my head


The Ogna River flows in soft curves
between fields and rocks

Youíve set the table with flowers and shrimp
I uncork a gleaming green wine

The sunís gone down and bit by bit the color blue has
taken over the landscape and the window pane

The train rounds a bend along the bayshore
and we eat without saying a word

Out of the crystalized air
big wet snowflakes come hovering spiraling

I stand inside with a mug of hot tea
and feel my soul writhe

Helge Torvund

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More from Ocean of Melody

Hiding behind white clouds,
Cold frost and dark hailstorm;
Hiding behind monkís robes,
Dark foes of the Dharma.
Ride not your steed across,
Frozen, slippery ground;
Trust not all your secrets,
To a new-found lover.
Full moon of the fifteenth*,
It surely seems to be;
But the 'Man-in-the-moon'
Is dead as dead can be.

According to the lunar Calendar.
Tibetans refer to it as the 'Hare-in-the-Moon'.
When this moon has faded,
Another moon will rise;
My fortune and good luck,
Will rise with the new moon.
If the Central Mountain*,
Remains ever constant;
Then the Sun and the Moon,
Will not err from their path.
Dalai Lama

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Rati Saxena

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