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We are the stars which sing; we sing with our light.We are the birds of fire, we fly over the sky.Our light is a voice; we make a road for the spirit to pass over..And so I sat at home waiting for the mail. I knew the painful bardo was soon to come upon me. The bardo of dying.I read again the words of Padmasambhava from the cycle of The Tibetan Book of the Dead:Now when the bardo of dying dawns...
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