Arutam and the force

Arutam is a perfect crystal that sustains the entire existence in a single Great Feeling. It's the perfect intellect behind the world we see, that eternally imbibes from its own grace. It's harmony, which keeps that sacred perfection intact, making it both immortal and eternally venerable; just a pass of time that dignifies it, and uncovers new miracles inexhaustibly.

That sacred crystal is a temperate peace within the most calm and rich insipidness. Each craving ridicules itself before the Infinite Feeling, which contains all feeling in its most minute twilights and at its most splendid apogee, in the spark of an instant.

The man who gives himself, during that trance, will rest in plenitude. And in the natural intellect that has always been, he understands the past and abandons it in compassion, by freely breathing the Arutam, in the very instant he sings, in the eternal ocean of the Great Feeling.

Skies that mourn and wet the sweet earth, awaken a sudden snap, which was hidden in a corner between earth, stone and trees. A part of the feeling of Arutam, engraved on some green leaf, will remind men of some nuance of the richness of their true feeling. By remembering Life, people heal; By remembering where we were born from, we stop hurting the world. Slowly I reflect, about compassion as the natural consequence of force.

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Mountain, you love the roots of bare trees,

they heal me with the maturity of their branches in the wind,

as their saltpeter soaks my face.


I see the sky arrive,

in its dark wavy mirror,

to the same coast where I was born.


There I look today

and I say goodbye to the one I love,

I say goodbye to the one who loves us.


I remember your respectful words to the marine horizon,

today and tomorrow,

I will share them with Luna.


You are afternoon's strength

Coming back on the tide and soaking us.

Far above you still get my eyes wet,

and that's good.


Streams run in winter on my Island,

never more than today, they carry my heart,

Their crying is sweet and it's history.


The wealth of age next to Tobacco,

teach men not to suffer

and never spoil the Great Sense in this short life.


To the force that made us born,

we will return in peace.

Nothing will have changed.


And among heaven and earth,

a resistant composition won´t hurt anymore

bleeding under wet leaves.


Great Perfection, you live within us,

you draw the world to your wealth and likeness

as an emanation of the most beautiful crystal.


Temper our hearts

with the cool breeze from our grandparents' breath,

and the bright sun of the presence of those who are not here today.


As a man I take a seat

and meditate on the mountain side to see better,

next to the white eagle, I slowly raise my head to the blue.


Words to Arutam Ruymán, Buenos Aires 2017

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A words of affection towards Arutam Ruymán, inspired by the end of year ceremonies in Buenos Aires. By Mauricio Auvet:


In the last thrust of time,

right at the point where dreams hurt

with the soul full of sorrow and bitterness,

the wounds throb as your singing is heard.


You, who learned the wisdom of our ancestors;

You, who was blessed by the Great Spirit,

help me remember;

You, the one who cares and transmits the sacred touch,

save me from darkness.


Your song brings back memories of the world;

your art unties the time between the sounds and the omens.

My heart listens

death and life,

fear and love,

transforming sorrows, healing wounds.



You reveal the Great Secret.

Medicine works in my body,


I'm flying with wings of tenderness,

I abandon reasoning to reach this understanding


My soul vibrates as it heals my body.

The smell of incense prevails

in the vagueness of bodies lying in trance.

I am part of the whole,

the ego dissolves.


The night dies, the day is born.

The shadows fall and the warrior awakens

under the spell of your sweet flute as beauty is unveiled.

The sound of the wind makes my soul bloom.


From your hand I meet my grandfather Tobacco,

I am overflowing with freshness

and drink the blood of Arutam.

Teach me, oh Master!

your wisdom.


I honor this wonderful experience with all due solemnity,

with respect and love, I take care of my feeling.

Infinite is my gratitude

 to your will, to your work.

Thank you for the ceremony,

thank you for teaching me how to be Human.

The sacred feeling of Tobacco



Sacred feeling

you draw yourself in the Tobacco leaf.

You move the night to make her cry

as wet teardrops in my bowl of mud

Wet tears burning...

Just like the deepest and iciest night,

return in the tepid light and chant,

the deep blackness of your damp lament

turn on the Spirit of the man who breathes you.


What a fortune to hold the world in my hand.

Black night, you breathe and whistle twinkling

on the murmuring riverbank.

You drain in the black tears of anaconda,

which my grandparents learned to pick up

and take its content ... to the heart.

Thus, they were able to remember, they could understand…

Just by feeling you,

they were caressed by the breeze of instinct

and the night moaned as the panther's skin

woke up screaming,

letting out the bright tip

of its star silver claws.


Oh Arutam!

Your sacred presence dwells in all things,

You are the light, the water, the earth.

Your delightful feeling is the crystal of Perfection

infinitely imbued with his own grace.

That feeling contains everything,

while it beats in our heart

and it screams in its ancestral chant.

A call to life that cries in those who come

as soon as they open their eyes to the world.

You are the union of the three times

in an eternal, perfect and blessed present.


You always run,

but while I pray with my Tobacco,

I overflow the channels of your river

making the heavens cry.

Thus, the sorcerer cries over you to show

that Life is within us

waiting for its chance to sprout;

to delight us in its peace, in its perfect bliss;

to heal us.


Sacred feeling,

you draw yourself in the Tobacco leaf.

You move the night and you make her cry

as dark teardrops in my bowl of mud.

Moist tears burning...

Just like the deepest and iciest night,

return in the tepid light and your chant,

the deep blackness of your damp lament

turn on the Spirit of the man who breathes in you.



Arutam Ruymán