Birds sing in the woods.
The master hears them.
His body is moving by.
The sound is pleasant.
He knows the timbre.
He identifies the bird.
He has many thoughts.
Yet he wants nothing
and he does not compare
even in the heap of his mind.
He is like the forest,
made of many things.
He lets name be name
and form be form.
The illusion of their meeting
is a pathway through the forest
dappled with song.
No comments:
Post a Comment