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IV – De Poetische Tweede Bijbel Dit is een Uitgave van MBT – Mother Bible Temple. http://motherbible.comoj.com/ Vervolg Eeuwig Evangelie IV – De Poetische Tweede Bijbel The Kristarvaka Vatorium Sandman's Glove the world beyond fairytale Part I : Purple Velvet Fairytale The Chocolate Diaries Poetry from the Aldebaran Tales The Green Frog Little Drummer Boy Ode to the Violin Deep Underwater Tale Poetry from the Rose of Venus The Six Flames The Day before Eden Poetry from the Yellow Rose The Soldier in the Little Box Poetry of the Red Rose The Birth of the Panther's Prince Part II : The Lawyer's Suite Orange Book with a Split Laugh Poetry from the Black Widow A Snake in the Swanlake Poetry from the Latin Buffoon Puppet Boys from Lynx Part III : Misunderstanding from the Lion's Tea A Smuggler's Cheque-book in Mozart's Bottle Poetry from the Neptunian Rose Forest Dreams Poetry from the Toy's Soldier Masked Memories Poetry from the Black Fish Red Picnic's Day Part IV : Salute, Mr Aquarius Poetry from the Chrystal Star Where All the Tears Collide Silence of the Sleep Poetry from the Old Cigar Scratch on A Charlie Chaplin's Record Poetry from the Violin The Secret of Birthday Part V : Goodmorning, Mrs. Jupiter The Enchanted Mirror The Mistress Here In My Head It Ticks Gypsy's Girl I-VI The Cardreader The Rabbit Silent After All These Years When the Bunny Sais No The Fortune-Teller The Clairvoyante The Coin I-VI Service with Little Light The Wizard The Actress Part VI : Good Evening, Mrs. Neptune "When you eat the fruit, the first bite is sweet, the second bite is sour, the third is bitter, the fourth can kill you, while the fifth can bring you to live. The sixth one, the last, is salt, but it will lead you to the core, where you live forever." --- The Licorice Chapter 1. The Way of the Snake Chapter 2. When Mother Comes Back Chapter 3. The Mirror Chapter 4. Poetry from the Golden Chocolate Arena of Fruits Hell of Hamelin Jezebel Chapter 5. Rivers of Blood I-V Chapter 6. Book of Elves Apocalypse of Wasps Chapter 7. The Girl with the Red Boots Chapter 8. The Licorice and the Mandarine Chapter 9. Snow Which Never Ticked Poetry From The Aldebaran Tales The Green Frog I was walking through the garden of the prince's court. The wind blew softly on my face. I was looking for something special, something I would never forget. I looked at the mosaic- windows of the church at a distance. I saw a face from behind the mystical window waving at me. I smelled a soft breath of roses and narcissus, and I walked through the garden, to the church at the side. I entered the portal, wondering who I would meet there, the waving face. It was a tall frog in a black uniform with white decoration. His face was green and he smiled at me, like there were hundred of faces smiling at me. He said he came to me to show me the meaning of life. He showed me a black hat, and he threw it away in the air and it disappeared through the ceiling of the church. Then he took out his uniform, tore it and threw the pieces at the altar of the church, where it burnt. I saw all sorts of colors coming from the altar, and he asked me to lay myself on this altar. I did that, and I felt I was floating with these colours. The colours were mixing and flew through my body. I felt myself naked, but these colours covered me. The Frog said to me : When someone is willing to give his life away, he will discover a world beyond clothes, beyond masks, which will cover him in a better sense. He will discover a deeper life, a deeper law. The colours which are set free when someone gives away his life, will lead him to the heart of the old church. This church represents the free, divine fontain, which lives in everyone's heart, if one is willing to live by that. Some will come closer to this fountain, others will leave it more and more. Little Drummer Boy Do you believe in fairytales ? Do you believe in SummerSnow ? Do you believe in Flying Fishes and Yellow Tomatoes to eat ? Do you believe in a Southern Santa Clause, clothed by the Sun, walking on clouds, playing flute and violin ? Do you believe he can make stars out of nothing ? Or do you believe he is just a lost stranger making noise in the streets, to earn some money and attention ? Who is he to you, the person who brings the mail everyday ? Is he just someone who has a wife and kids, or is he a messenger of the gods, a personal teacher, or someone who would be better of baking bread ? The magic begins, when you start to see that all the people around you are the characters of your life's movie, when you start to realize they are there to fill the podium of the world's biggest theater- play ever made. God made it for you, and he asks you just to watch, to hold your breath, and even when there is a lot of tragedy, to know it is to show you the road to your neighbour, to show you the little drummer boy, locked up in the story of your life, waiting for you to open the book. It is your child, your inner child, beating a different drum, singing another song, which you never heard before. He will be someone to love, someone to care about. He will lead you to a different road, stepping into another beat. He will show you the guys who beat your drum now, he will leave a message once in awhile. Is he the true sound of your innermost heart, is he the cry for life inside of you ? Kiss his tears and you will know. Touch his drum, and you will see, that he is not a toy in the hands of the spoilt ones, but he is a prince's toy, dancing in the dark, after all these ages, still the same drum, the same beat. He still sings that same strange song, which gives you that strange feeling in your stomache. Like losing the world, the worries and the wars, for one day, when he shows up, only seeing him, that little drummer boy. Ode to the Violin Violin, play your game, violin, make your breakfast, for you are going to fly high, when the raindrops will fall today. You were a bloomer on a flowers heart, you were a soother in a birds head. How you made your chords, it wasn't fragile and tender enough for you. You wanted to hear spring through the touch of your box. The playing of chords opened the secrets and you knew how to play my heart. You knew how to bring to the surface that was deeply sunk in the wilderness of my emotions. You brought clarity to my soul, and gave me the opportunity to express myself. Every chord had it's own purpose, every chord was a guard at the prince's court. They were the jesters of the prince's, the toys of the kingly sons. I was amazed when I first heard your sound for it brought me back to where I belong, it brought me back to the castle of hearts. It opened my history once again, to re-unite me with my roots, but also my wounds. You weren't afraid to show me my wounds again, you knew it was for the better part of me. You weren't afraid to show me the way I had to go, the tears I would cry. You prepared me for war, you brought me my armor. Give me my soldiers, who died in the cold, bring me the keys to warm their heart again to let them rise once again. These toysoldiers who stood by me through all the times, only awakening at twelve o clock, but sleeping at daylight. I saw their tears running from their wooden faces, their metallic eyes were staring at one point, unable to move their hands, unable to touch, unable to dance their dances. But at twelve o clock, when the clock strikes twelve times in the night, the butterflies touch their hands and their feet and they dance their wild dances of war and victory. Then the toys come alive and play their games. Then they are the rulers of the world, when no one sees them, when everyone is asleep. They rule the fantasy, they rule the unconscious part of man. They rule when the kids give their lives to the night, going underwater for another round in sleep. They haven't heard the touch of the butterflies wings at night, they haven't heard the violins awakening the hearts of the toy-soldiers, for they were too young to understand, too tired to realize the magic which was being spread throughout the night. The night is such a secret, the night is such a tale. It is for the wise and the old to catch a glimpse, for the children a lust when grandfather starts to tell. Deep Underwater Tale The night blocks the head of the father, when he is reading his underwater tales again. The night touched his head again, reading his words again.
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