October 25, 2014

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Just Being, a poem

The plum trees blossoms In the middle of winter.
There is no robe no color.
In practice there is no time, no culture, no sex.
In pure existence the breath takes what the intellect can never think.
There is no attachment or detachment.
The pure being, thoughtless with no move,
moves the world, and within, the world becomes a silent universe,
beyond the realm of reality and fantasy.
Just being, is what always was, and always will be.
Practice and be still.
The rest is not for you to follow.