this point




This point in time is a time of harvest.

Now that I have given all possessions, ideals, words and concepts

to the wind

there is stillness.

I am cleansed, nothing I need.

Clothed in the four directions

I sit where I am

a faint remembrance of the last desire

echoing in the brain.

That, too, something of the past,

to be healed, dissolved.

Where is my voice?

What have I to say?

Only this: they were all right.

And they missed the point – this point.

How could they not?

Every expression is just a symbol.

Like honking of wild geese it just says

“Here I am, move with me, let’s fly together!”

So I honk from this point,

the point of harvest, where I let go of all grasping

and take in the fullness of what I am.

In the simplicity outside of form all comes to me.

I know this makes no sense.

All I can do is sweetly honk

to let you know that I am always here

with you





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