Out of the Shadows
The Children of the Revolution Rise
For too long, the Children of the Revolution remained in the shadows of familial, ancestral realities, witnessing more bloodshed in the modern-day world.
From scars traumatic memories unfolding, to healing ley lines over centuries of battlefields in the minds. Slowly rising — remaining in a peace-hold for others to find their waypoints via lighthouse emitting rays of better days, filled with hope, joy and playful beginnings bearing witness.
Avatars, Lightworkers, Light-gazers, Fire Keepers, Rainbow Warriors, coming together as one body. The Children of the Revolution, standing in Peace, lighting great fires of Peace, allowing others to join at the sacred fires across the globe.
Fissionable reactions to histories cyclical humanoid behavior, zero point is at hand. Dividing for eons, an evolutionary or prophetic witness of our brother and sisters fighting in the street. Seeds planted by burning trees, bombing calls of egoic dictatorship, watered by the shadows of personal burning desire.
Transmuted thought fused by the hearts of the revolution, deeper roots forming a mycorrhizal network sweeping across the baron deserts and into the concrete jungles, the inner workings of a greater network giving birth.
We are on the cusp of a great fall of man. The time has come for the Children of the Revolution to rise.
Suffering remains at an all-time high. With pharmaceuticals popping on every street corner, the world is crying out for something greater. Poo-pooed by the majority, the Children of the Revolution remain in Peace, holding sacred space for others to join in a self-realization — forming a global understanding.
Their weapons are not that of destruction, like those dropped on neighboring villages, but weapons of love, Peace and playful song. Their hearts beat as the Dragons’ own, breathing new life into a new chapter.
Slow is the race, not won by vigor and glory. Slow is the race, heartfelt communion of souls. Slow is the race, organic return to Gardens of Eden story-filled magnificence.
Painted pictures of children donning pink dresses, presenting all across the land. With two sides fighting, dressed in greys and sadness on the battlefields of a cyclical memory. Guns are blaring, anger projecting across the fields of further hate, neither side truly understanding why they are there.
In walks a single child dressed in a pink dress. Down the middle of the battlefield, armed with a doll in hand, she walks unafraid into the midst of waves of anger pulling draw.
Both sides stop, laying down their weapons of fear — affixed on the little child. Their hearts enter the footsteps of the innocent — crying out for one another.
From cries of innocent to aggressors shifting position, the cries flood the lands, watering a new garden of hope.
Years ago, I woke from a dream. In this dream were two sides fighting. Painted by greys of historical battles, two sides fighting for a stronghold of belief. A single child donning a pink dress walks unafraid down the middle of the battlefield. With songs of crying ancestors to songs of new beginnings, she walked and skipped to the zero point of the battlefield. Both sides stopped fighting, laid down their weapons and recognized the opposition as brother and sister.
Years pass, and I am reminded of this movement; the Children of the Revolution bear the scars of their ancestors and choose loving kindness over forcing another into further hate.
With Filza Chaudhry recent post, I am reminded of a time that has come…
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.