Cry of an Angel Clad in Clothes, or Sufferings of a Man with an Angel, in Place of a Soul

To whom, why am I writing these lines? Most likely to myself. Abiding in a holy place for years, just twice have I been recognized, and only by the people with a Soul, by God's will, free from the mind. Man’s mind is a true stumbling stone, perhaps, even a cliff facing the Soul. One cannot simply go around or jump over it. To climb up over sharp stones, scraping your nails till they bleed and falling down the slippery ledges, sweet from the mind; then to get up anew, having regained spiritual strength, and crawl again... is not for everyone. For it’s so lovely, cosy, sweet and warm at the cliff’s foot. The mind, from short-lived pants, creates illusions of all that you may wish for. So long as you kept wishing. Wishing for earthly love with a blazing hearth, for children to give birth to, for wealth, or fame - it’s all the same. So long as you kept wishing. Wishing, wishing, and it will all be given. In one illusion or another, it does not matter, so long as you kept wishing. Wishing! Wishing for the earthly...

"But it's so hard!” cry many people. No, it is not. So many times I’ve put the clothes on. I roamed the endless roads with just a staff, feeding the flesh with only what I found. I was a king, for long I ruled over the countless peoples. And every time the clothing would be tight, the clothes would hamper me and hinder me from living. They’d shake with fear and get sick, and, like all others’, at first they’d wish for much, until I'd tame them. That wild beast, of whom the dress is woven, fears just his master, just the Soul. But many fear the Soul more than the beast; the Soul that hinders their lives just like the clothing hinders mine. I cannot understand such people. To waste the whole Eternity on only just one moment? What's the point? To suffer in the arms of the beast’s skin, to serve the pants decaying day by day. So this is life? But life is infinite! It has no suffering, it doesn’t wear out, for it's impossible to wear out the Soul. The clothing has no Home, there's just a closet where it is kept for only a short while. Only the Soul has a true Home. And it’s the Soul that, yearning for Eternity, begets this sense of Home for which man searches his entire life.

Rigden Djapo.

(Prologue to the book AllatRa by Anastasia Novykh) 

The full text of the book is available at: 
http://allatra.com.au/books


Other books by this author (in English) can be found at: 
http://schambala.org/books.html

Translated into English by:
flamedragon27.blogspot.com