TWENTY SIXTH ANNIVERSARY OF
VAJRAMUKTI
At this bad
times for human race on this occasion I present Lord Mirdad's words for
comforting humanity and thanks to active beings like Dr Leo Rebellow Dr BRC and
all others for telling truth to people on this plandemics
as they exposed it... hope Mirdad or Lord Jesus comes and help humanity
https://youtu.be/PY_MpufQM4Q
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WHEN
LORD MIRDAD DONT KILL THE COW IN ANY CPNSPIRACY EVEN IF SHE IS VERY OLD WHY WE
SHOULD REMOVE HUMANS...IN THE NAME OF DEPOPULATION AGENDA...PLEASE...READ THESE
THREE INCIDENTS FROM MIRDAD AND HELP MANKIND...
MIRDAD HEALS
SIM-SIM AND SPEAKS ON OLD AGE
Naronda:
Sim-Sim, the oldest cow in the stables of the Ark, had been ailing for five
days and would not touch any feed or water, when Shamadam sent for a butcher
saying that it was more prudent to slaughter the cow and profit by the sale of
her meat and hid than let her die and be a total loss. When the Master heard of
it he became exceeding thoughtful and straightway hurried to the stable and into
Sim-Sim’s stall. The Seven followed in his wake. Sim-Sim stood sad and almost
motionless, her head hanging low, her eyes half-shut and her hair bristling and
devoid of sheen. Now and then would she barely move an ear to chase away an
impertinent fly. Here great milk-bag hung limp and empty between her thighs;
for Sim-Sim towards the end of her long and fruitful life was denied the sweat
heartaches of motherhood. Her hipbones jutted out, grim and forlorn, like two
tombstones. Here ribs and vertebra could easily be counted. Her long and
slender tail, with a heavy tuft of hair at the end, fell straight and stiff.
The Master approached the ailing animal and began to stroke here between the
horns and eyes and under the chin. Occasionally he would pass his hand over her
back and belly, speaking to her all the while as he would speak to a human
being: MIRDAD: Where is your cud, my generous Sim-Sim? So much has Sim-Sim
given that she forgot to leave herself even a small cud to chew. And much as
Sim-Sim yet to give, her snow white milk is till this day running crimson in
our veins. Her sturdy calves are trailing heavy ploughs in our fields and
helping us to feed many a hungry mouth. Here graceful heifers fill our pastures
with their young. Even her refuse graces our board in succulent greens from the
garden and luscious fruits from the orchard. Our ravines still echo and re-echo
good Sim-Sim’s lungful bellowing. Our springs still mirror here benign and
lovely face. Our soil still cherishes and guards with jealously the
ineffaceable prints of her hoofs. Too glad are our grasses to feed Sim-Sim .
Too pleased is our sun to caress her. Too happy are our breezes to glide over
her soft and glossy fur. Too thankful is Mirdad to see her through the desert
of Old age and be her guide to other pastures in the land of other suns and
breezes. Much has Sim-Sim given, and much has she taken; but more has Sim-Sim
yet to give and to take. Micaster: Can Sim-Sim understand your words that you
should speak to her as if she had a human understanding? MIRDAD: It is not the word that counts, good
Micaster. It is what vibrates in the word. And to that even a beast is
susceptible. Besides, I see a woman looking at me out of meek SimSim’s eye.
Micaster: What is the good of speaking so to aged and failing Sim-Sim? Hope you
thereby to stay the ravages of age and lengthen Sim-Sim’s days? MIRDAD: A
dreadful burden is Old Age to man as well as to beast. And men have made it
doubly so by their neglectful heartlessness. Upon a newborn babe they lavish
their utmost care and affection. But to an age-burdened man they reserve their
indifference more than their care, and their disgust more than their sympathy.
Just as impatient as they are to see a sucking to grow into manhood, just so
impatient are they to see an old man swallowed by the grave. The very young and
the very old are equally helpless. But the helplessness of the young conscripts
the loving, sacrificial help of all. While the helplessness of the old is able
to command but the grudging help of few. Verily, the old are more deserving of
sympathy than the young. When the word must knock long and loud to gain
admittance to an ear once sensitive and alert to the faintest whisper, When the
once limpid eye becomes a dancing floor for the weirdest blotches and shadows.
When the once winged foot becomes a lump of lead, and the hand that moulded
life becomes a broken mould, When the knee is out of joint , and the head is a
puppet on the neck, When the mill-stones are ground out, and the mill itself is
a dreary cave, When to rise is to sweat with the fear of falling down, and to
sit is to sit with the painful doubt of never rising again, When to eat and
drink is to dread the aftermath of eating and drinking, and not to eat and
drink is to be stalked by hateful Death, Aye, when Old Age is upon a man, then
is the time, my companions, to lend him ears and eyes, and give him hands and
feet, and brace his failing strength with love so as to make him feel that he
is no whit less dear to Life in his waning years then he was in his waxing
babyhood and youth. Four-score years may not be more than a wink in eternity.
But a man who has sown himself for four-score years is much more than a wink.
He is the foodstuff for all who harvest his life. And which life is not harvested
by all? Are you not harvesting even this very moment the life of every man and
woman that ever walked this Earth? What is your speech but the harvest of their
speech? What are your thoughts but the gleanings of their thoughts? Your very
clothes and dwellings, your food, your implements, your laws, your traditions
and conventions, are they not the clothes, the dwellings, the food, the implements, the laws, the
traditions and conventions of those who had been and gone before? Not one thing
do you harvest at one time, but all things and at all times. You are the
sowers, the harvest, the reapers, the field and the threshing floor. If your
harvest be poor, look to the seed you have sown in others and the seed you
allowed them to sow in you. Look also to the reaper and his sickle, and to the
field and the threshing floor. An old man whose life you have harvested and put
away in granaries is surely worthy of your utmost care. Should you embitter
with indifference his years which are yet rich with things to be harvested ,
that which you have gathered of him and put away, and that which are yet to
gather would certainly be bitter in your mouth. So it is with the failing
beast. It is not right to profit by the crop, and then to curse the sower and
the field. Be kind to men of every race and clime, my companions. They are the
food for your God-ward journey. But be especially kind to men in their old age
lest through unkindness your food be spoiled and you never reach your journey’s
end. Be kind to animals of every sort and age. They are your dumb but very
faithful helpers in the long and arduous preparations for the journey. But be
especially kind to animals in their old age, lest through the hardness of your
heart their faithfulness be turned into faithlessness, and their help become an
hindrance. It is rank ingratitude to thrive on Sim-Sim’s milk, and when she has
no more to give, to lay the butcher’s knife to her throat. Naronda: Hardly had
the Master finished saying that when Shamadam with the butcher walked in. the
butcher went straight to Sim-Sim. No sooner did he see here than we heard him
shout in joyful mockery, ‘How say you this cow is ill and dying? She is
healthier than I , excepting that she is starved – the poor animal – and I am
not. Give her to eat.’ And great was our amazement, indeed, when we looked at
Sim-Sim and saw her chewing the cud. Even Shamadam’s heart softened and he
ordered the best of cow-delicacies brought to Sim-Sim. And Sim-Sim ate with a
relish.
ON CREDITORS
AND DEBTORS. WHAT IS MONEY? RUSTODION ACQUITTED OF HIS DEBT TO THE ARK Naronda:
One day as the seven and the Master were returning from the Aerie to the Ark
they saw Shamadam at the gate waving a piece of paper at a man prostrated at
his feet, and heard him saying in an angry voice: ‘Your delinquency exhausts my
patience. I can be lenient no longer. Pay now, or rot in prison.’ The man we
recognized as Rustodion, one of the many tenants of the Ark who was indebted to
the Ark for a certain sum of money. He was bent as much with rags as with
years; and he pleaded with the Senior for a time to pay the interest, saying
that he had recently lost his only son and his only cow in the same week, and
that his old wife, as a consequence , was struck with palsy. But Shamadam’s
heart would not soften. The Master walked towards Rustodion and, taking him
gently by the arm, he said, MIRDAD: Arise, my Rustodion. You , too , are an
image of God, and God’s image must not be made to bow before any shadow. ( Then
turning to Shamadam ) Show me the bill of indebtness. Naronda: Shamadam , so
furious but a moment before, became to the amazement of all more docile than a
lamb, and meekly handed to the Master the paper in his hand, which paper the
Master took and scrutinized for long with Shamadam bluntly looking on and
saying nothing, as if in a spell. MIRDAD: No moneylender was the founder of the
Ark. Did he bequeath you money to lend out with usury? Did he bequeath you
chattels to trade in, or lands to rent and hoard the fat thereof? Did he
bequeath you your brother’s sweat and blood and then bequeath you prisons for
the ones whose sweat you have drained to the end, and whose blood you have
sucked to a drop? An Ark, and an altar, and a light did he bequeath you –
nothing more. An Ark which is his living body. An altar which is his dauntless
heart. A light, which is his burning faith. And these he commanded you to keep
intact and pure amid a world dancing to pipes of Death and wallowing in
quagmires of iniquity, because of faithlessness. And that the cares of the body
may not distract your spirit, you were allowed to live upon the charity of the
faithful. And never since the Ark was launched was there a dearth of charity.
But, lo! This charity have you now turned into a curse, both for yourselves and
for the charitable. For with their gifts you subjugate the givers. You scourge
them with the very thread they spin for you. You strip them naked with the very
cloth they weave for you. You starve them with the very bread they bake for
you. You build them prisons with the very stones they cut and dress for you. You fashion yokes
and coffins for them out of the very wood they provide you for your warmth.
Their very sweat and blood you loan them back with usury. For that were money
but the sweat and blood of men coined by the crafty into mites and shekels
wherewith to shackle men? And what were riches but the sweat and blood of men
garnered by those who sweat and bleed the least to grind therewith the backs of
those who sweat and bleed the most? Woe and woe again onto them who burn away
their minds and hearts and slay their nights and days in storing riches! For
they know not what they store. The sweat of harlots, murderers and thieves; the
sweat of the consumptive, the leaper and the palsied; the sweat of the blind,
and the halt, and the maimed with that of the ploughman and his ox, and of the
shepherd and his sheep, and of the reaper and the gleaner – all these and many
more do the storers of riches store. The blood of the orphan and the rogue; of
the despot and the martyr; of the wicked and the just; of the robber and the
robbed; the blood of executioners and those they execute; the blood of leeches
and cheats and those they suck and cheat – all these and many more do the
storers of riches store. Aye, woe and woe again to those whose riches and shoes
stock in trade is the sweat and blood of man! For sweat and blood will in the
end exact their price. And terrible shall be the price, and fearful the
exacting. To lend, and lend with interest! That is indeed ingratitude too brazen
to condone. For what have you to lend? Is not your very life a gift? Were God
to charge you interest for the least of His gifts unto you, wherewith would you
pay? Is not this world a common treasury wherein each man, each thing, deposit
all they have for the maintenance of all? Does the lark lend you its song, and
the spring its sparkling water? Does the oak loan its shade, and the palm its
honeyed dates? Does the sheep give you his wool, and the cow here milk for
interest? Do the clouds sell you their rain, and the Sun his warmth and light?
What would be your life without these things and myriad other things? And who
of you can tell which man, which thing, have deposited the most, and which, the
least in the treasury of the world? Can you, Shamadam , calculate Rustidion’s
contributions to the treasury of the Ark ? yet would you lend him back his very
contributions – perhaps but a trifling part thereof – and charge him interest
to boot. Yet would you send him to prison and leave him there to rot? What interest do you demand of Rustidion? Can
you not see how profitable your loan has been to him? what better payment do
you wish than a dead son, a dead cow and a palsied wife? What greater interest
can you exact than these so mouldy rags upon so bent a back? Ah, rub your eyes,
Shamadam. Be awake before you, too, are asked to pay your debts with interest,
and failing that ,be dragged into prison and there be left to rot. The same I
say to all of you, companions. Rub your eyes, and be awake. Give when you can,
and all you can. But never lend, lest all you have, even your life, become a
loan and the loan fall due at once, and you be found insolvent and cast into
prison. Naronda: The Master then looked again at the paper in his hand and
deliberately tore it to shreds, which shreds he scattered to the wind. Then
turning to Himbal, who was the keeper of the treasury, he said to him. MIRDAD:
Give Rustidion wherewith to buy to cows and care for his wife and himself to
the end of their days. And you, Rustidion, go in peace . you are acquitted of
your debt. Take care that you never become a creditor. For the debt of him who
lends is greater and heavier by far than the debt of him who borrows.
MIRDAD
UNVEILS HIMSELF AND SPEAKS ON VEILS AND SEALS Naronda: Upon that eve the Eight
were gathered round the supper board with Mirdad standing to one side and
silently awaiting orders. One of the ancient rules for companions was to avoid,
so much as possible, the use of the word I in their speech. Companion Shamadam
was boasting of his achievements as Senior. He cited many figures showing how
much he had added to the wealth and prestige of the Ark. In doing that he made
excessive use of the forbidden word. Companion Micayon gently reprimanded him.
Whereupon a heated discussion arose as to the purpose of the rule and who had
laid it down, whether father Noah or the first Companion, meaning Sam. The heat
led to recriminations, and recriminations to a general confusion where much was
said and nothing understood. Wishing to change confusion into mirth, Shamadam
turned to Mirdad and said in evident derision: ‘Behold , a greater than the
patriarch is here. Mirdad, show us the way out of this maze of words.’ All eyes
were turned upon Mirdad. And great were our astonishment and joy when , for the
first time in seven years, he opened his mouth and spoke unto us saying.
MIRDAD: Companions of the Ark! Shamadam’s wish, though uttered in derision,
unwittingly foretells Mirdad’s solemn decision. For since the day he came into
the Ark Mirdad fore chose this very time and place – this very circumstance –
in which to break his seals, and cast away his veils, and stand revealed before
you and world. With seven seals has Mirdad sealed his lips. With seven veils
has Mirdad veiled his face, that he may teach you and the world, when you are
ripe for teaching , how to unseal your lips and to unveil your eyes, and thus
reveal yourselves to yourselves in fullness of the glory which is yours. Your
eyes are veiled wit far too many veils. Each thing you look upon is but a veil.
Your lips are sealed with far too many seals. Each word you utter forth is but
a seal. For things, whatever be their form and kind, are only veils and
swaddling-bands and veils? And words – are they not things sealed up in letters
and in syllables? How can your lip, which itself a seal, give utterance to
aught but seals? The eye can veil, but cannot pierce the veils. The lip can
seal, but cannot break the seals. Demand no more of either one of them. That is
their portion of the body’s labours. And they perform it well. By drawing
veils, and by setting seals they call aloud to you to come and seek what is
behind the veils , and pry out what is beneath the seals. To break the seals you need a lip other than
the familiar piece of flesh below your nose. First see the eye itself alright,
if you would see the other things alright. Not with the eye, but through it
must you look that you may see all things beyond it. Speak first the lip and
tongue alright if you would speak the other words alright. Not with the lip and
tongue, but through them must you speak that you may speak all words beyond
them. Did you but see and speak aright, you should see nothing but yourselves
and utter nothing but yourselves. For in all things and beyond all things , as
in all words and beyond all words, are you – the seer and the speaker. If,
then, your world be such a baffling riddle, it is because you are that baffling
riddle. And if your speech be such a woeful maze, it is because you are that
woeful maze. Let things alone and labour not to change them. For they seem what
they seem only because you seem what you see. They neither see nor speak except
you lend them sight and speech. If they be harsh of speech, look only to your
tongue. If they be ugly of appearance, search first and last your eye. Ask not
of things to shed their veils. Unveil yourselves, and things will be unveiled.
Nor ask of things to break their seals. Unseal your selves, and all will be
unsealed. The key to self-unveiling and self-unsealing is a word, which you
forever hold between your lips. Of words it is the slightest and the greatest.
Mirdad has called it THE CREATIVE WORD. Naronda: The master paused; and silence
deep, but vibrant with suspense, fell upon all. At last Micyon spoke in
passionate impatience. Micayon: Our ears are hungry for THE WORD. Our hearts
are yearning for the key. Say on, we pray, Mirdad, say on.
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