Saturday, November 1, 2014

Professor Robert

Restingwind in teacher's robes
So Heaven doesn't have to
Even whistle
At the lost ones' holy shapes
As they learn what needs release
Through the Western gates
Like a roses' scent
The wisdom eye
In a dualistic spiral
Asking "how can we ever lose the past?"
As it detaches
To a mist that seems as emptiness
To fill
The whipping tail of rain
Almost like words

The six dusts glisten
In the changing light
As if they never move
As if they do exist

Restoration crosses
Lifted from the fallen
Who left as sifted imprints
The mistakes at the beginning
Reformings of the formless
Like invisible knots untied
To feel the pain of no pain
So we know how suffering's bliss

1 comment:

the walking man said...

Changing the Eurocentric imagery for something a bit more Eastern. Cool. All spokes on the wheel lead to the same hub.