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Our first word: that magical moment when we talk for the first time;
that first word when we are a baby is so special, and so sublime;
so much so that I don’t think any word spoken afterwards can compare,
because this word is integral, auspicious, once in a life-time, and rare.
When I first found out what my first word was I smiled from ear to ear;
I looked around me, found a familiar face, and I imagined that I could hear
that first word, my first word, and the happiness and the joy that came with it-
both of my parents must have felt like they were looking down at me from Earth orbit.
I was not surprised, I was not expecting anything less profound;
my first word instantly created a connection, and from that moment I was bound.
Our first word does not define who we are, or who we are going to be;
however, it can turn out be an acorn that grows into a deeply-rooted tree.
My first word is also the identity of my hero: the person who first inspired me,
the man who gave me love, direction, and who is still the man who I want to be.
My first word was inspired by my Dad, and from then on my Dad has been my Buddha:
my first word created an unbreakable bond between us, and that word was dadda.

A roaring fire; the sound of Christmas songs playing in the background;
the opening of brightly-coloured wrapped gifts;
a feeling of love and joy all around.
Christmas has always be been my favourite time of the year-
the coming together of family,
and the remembrance of those who are no longer here,
to me is the most important part of Christmas: the day, the season, the cheer;
to me Christmas is a celebration of our present,
and whom and what we hold dear.
I love the wrapping of presents,
I adore the giving of label-adorned packages of joy;
I love sitting down to have Christmas dinner with my family-
ever since I was a little boy.
Christmas time, to me, has always been a present in and of itself-
there is always something in the air
that makes us all think about more than ourselves:
whether it be our family, our friends,
or our nearest and dearest that have passed on-
Christmas time is when we give back to everyone,
even to whom we think of as gone.
Every Christmas I remove myself from the world
and thank the universe for my life;
even if the previous 358 days have been filled with hurt,
confusion, and strife-
I find that by meeting the day at it conclusion
and saluting the setting of that days sun
I am giving thanks for who I am, what I have-
to the universe, to the Earth, to everyone.
Every day we all share a part of ourselves
and revel in the trust gifted to us by others;
every day we all unwrap the gift of our present,
and find meaning in what we uncover.

    Through the forest; through the trees;
    through an opening, to a cornfield;
    there, standing tall in the distance, my talisman is revealed.
    The instant I see it I immediately race towards it at full-speed-
    ever-present and all-around me there is an energy,
    an anticipation, a focus, and a need.
    The windmill is all that I see; the windmill is all that I know;
    not even the waist-high corn of this field
    can keep me from where I want to go.
    I am like a man possessed: running, leaping,
    forging a path where before there was none-
    the closer I get, the faster I run;
    the higher it towers, the more hypnotized by it I become.
    The Windmill, the tower: a majestic memento of ingenuity,
    and symbiosis.
    A windmill, an artefact: a constant, akin to that of an oasis.
    As I stand at the windmills base
    looking up at it’s intricate sails,
    the windmill’s wheel begins to spin,
    as if it were being turned by the gust of a gale.
    The clouds above me clear; the windmill’s sails are now still;
    the blue sky above me looks so inviting;
    I feel as if I am in the presence of an ethereal will.
    I stand transfixed; energized, emotional,
    protective of what stands before me;
    and after what seems like a lifetime of looking, I finally see…
    myself, my younger self,
    standing at the base of the windmill looking at me from below-
    as if I were now the windmill,
    and my younger self had come to say hello.

I can see them now; I can feel their pull;
I can understand their language; I can hear the voice of the eventual.
Across a vast auditorium of light- masquerading as a sea of stars-
I hear a lone voice, just as enticing as finding life on Mars.
A voice that can only be heard by listening with your internal ear
to the frequency of the enlightened- that which lies in wait for us all to revere.
Epics have been written and ingrained with this voice of distant origin;
poem’s, and stories- all inflamed with the name and the face of our celestial twin.
Those distant stars; those first emanations of light, life, hope, and divinity-
though their influence will live forever, they will forever live with anonymity.
The voice of those distant stars- that guide, provide, and remind us of our way-
travels the cosmological coliseum instantly, and finds its listener without delay.
It’s message is a revelation, it’s permeating meaning needs no translation-
the voice of all voices, the true interpretation of every constellation,
gives inspiration, hope, and truth- equal to the magnitude of new life, and rebirth-
to anyone willing to listen in every galaxy, dimension, and planet- like that of Earth.
To me, this voice has been whispering its verse long before I was born.
This voice has been there to greet all life since creations first spawn.
To me, this voice is the voice of a laureate, a maestro, a poet of every sphere;
however, what this same voice would sound like to you, I cannot volunteer.
To me, this voice is the voice of every male, female, child, and offspring;
the resonance of every instrument, the vibration of every string.
The next time you are looking up at the night-sky, searching the heavens for an answer-
close your eyes; listen to the voice of those distant stars, and bring forth what they infer.

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