Oh, divine Mother Kundalini! Igneous serpent of our magical powers! I suffer too much and Thou knowest it. Even if I want to conceal my pain within the shadows of the forest, it publicly flourishes under the light of the sun.
I love Thee, adorable Mother, as the one who in our fertile, perfumed land loves the wandering bird that in the jungle has its haven. This sacred love that the immortal soul encloses sings with the lyre of Orpheus and weeps within my soul.
I love Thee, Queen of mine, profound Mother, Cibeles, Rhea, Tonantzin. I adore Thee with that sublime fever incited by kisses given without taint, which conceals Thy footprints that come down in torrents of living roses, drawn with stars.
Mother of mine, immaculate Virgin, I feel I am all Thine. What is that, which within my Being does not belong to Thee, from my weak heart of man until my holy and utmost idea?
I live to adore Thee, sublime Lady. My existence, already despoiled from illusions, my incessant ecstasies search within the sanctuary of Thine innocence for the glory and warmth of Thy delights.
Slave of Thy magical beauty, always superhuman, I render my heart unto Thy tenderness.
Speak unto me as Thou speakest unto me….! Let Thine unmistakable accent gladly penetrate within my anchorite ears.
Look at me as Thou lookest at me… with that infinite sweetness of Thy beautiful eyes, beyond the vain illusions of the world!
Profound and good Mother, with pomegranate lips and ivory teeth, have mercy on me.
Dearest holy Mother, beautiful, beloved head with long golden curls of hair that roll over Thine heavenly shoulders, have pity on me.
I adore Thee, my Light, Thou knowest it well. My thoughts soar throughout the heaven, encircling Thy rostrum like the birds which adorn the rich architrave of a temple of hope and alleviation.
I never found in the ages a place so delightful as the garden of my Mother. Abiding there, I forget my worries, I hear songs of birds sweet and modulated.
As soon as I lay down on that soil, I feel myself emancipated from all suffering. I forget every sorrow, every past grief. Whosoever would abide there would be blissful.
The prairie of which I speak to you about has another goodness. Neither by heat nor by cold does it lose its loveliness. It is always green in its whole entirety, without any storm withering its greenness.
The men and birds that yonder advance are carrying from the flowers all the ones which they preferred. Yet, desolation on the prairie they never make, since, for every flower they obtain, three or four are springing forth.
Ah..! If these wretched people would return into the orchard of Eden… If repented, they would return into the spiritual Garden of their Divine Mother: then they would comprehend how vain is their desire for existing in this valley of tears.
In accordance with the esoteric teachings, the real cause of that desire for conscious life remains forever hidden and its first emanations are the most profound abstractions.
Joy of the silence, resonance of the swift murmur, moon of midday, vegetal topaz, sombre jewel, form of that recondite hope:show me the cause, the secret root of existence.
When, of disillusions, thy soul shall become an empire, when thy tears shall be exhausted by thy suffering, when merciless unto thee the world shall apply its cautery, thus lashing thee with its pain, then, thou shalt evade the tempting door, the white door, Tule, the hindmost.
Then thou shalt slowly discourse throughout the garden of thy soul. There, thy Divine Mother in much secrecy shall teach thee the Karma of the Gods, root of worlds, origin of any existence.
Let us wait, let us suffer, do not ever hurl against the invisible our refutation as a threat. Sad, wretched creature, thou shalt see, thou shalt see! Thy Mother is approaching… From her blessed lips thou shalt hear the cosmic secret.
When the heart of this solar system began to palpitate after the profound night of the great Pralaya, thereupon the Gods from the dawn began to weep.
Remember, son of mine, that the Gods also err. Those divine Elohim wrote their erratum on the cosmic page of the past day.
Wouldst thou comprehend now the motive, the real cause of the universe, the vital secret of the conscious life, the desire for life?
When the dawn was dawning, I saw the Causal Logos moving upon the face of the waters.
“Do not begin the dawn of the Mahamanvantara yet!” cried the Holy Gods amidst their sobs.
Useless was their begging, vain their lament. Occasionally, the great Being stopped for a while in order to read the Karma from those resplendent children of the dawn.
These poor children prayed, they cried a lot, as did their Mother with fervour. Hence, everything remained in silence. Then, amidst the quenched sobs of the waves, only the rumour of existence was heard.
Oh, Mother of mine, may thy grandeur dispose of me at its pleasure! Now, for too many intricate reasons, I am going to transcribe a beautiful poem of Don Ramon del Valle Inclan.
I want to build a house
to attain sense of my life.
I want my soul to be roused,
to erect it on stone, beyond strife.
I want to shape my hermitage
in the midst of a Latin garden,
from a Grimoire Byzantine age,
an Horatian Latin garden.
I want my honest baronage
to transmit unto my son,
so that, through this wand of lineage,
to renew respect unto my grandson.
As a pyramid, my home’s harbour
shall be a temple’s funerary;
my chlamys is moved by the clamour
of a tertiary.
I want to make my house on a hamlet estate,
and its sunny place must be easterly,
so in its sunny space I can meditate
I want to make my house stoic,
walled with stone from Barbance,
like the house of Seneca, heroic
Thus, let its carving be rocky,
the carve of my house, Karma from my clan,
and let one day to adorn the ivy
upon the dolmen of the valley Inclan.
During the profound cosmic night, the vital causes of existence were destroyed. Then, the Karma of those Divine and human remained in suspension. The invisible which is and the visible which was remained within the eternal NOT-BEING: the UNIQUE-BEING.
Upon the silvery waves of the warm and transparent atmosphere of any universe that agonizes, as a wrecked and sorrowful Ophelia, the tender serenade of life goes floating by.
Afterwards, the worlds are dissolved. The night of the Great Pralaya arrives. The soul is thrilled with joy. It is the spark that returns into the flame of the Being, which indeed to our vain reasoning is NON-BEING.
This chapter is from Cosmic Teachings of a Lama (1970) by Samael Aun Weor. The print and ebook editions by Glorian Publishing (a non-profit organization) are illustrated to aid your understanding, and include features like a glossary and index. Buy the book, and you benefit yourself and others.