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