The song in heart of the storm,
Boats of questions, tempest of answers
All stranded on the island of being,
But on this island, who am I?
Neither a sailor nor a boat,
Nor the seafarer in search of shores,
Neither a wave nor the ocean itself,
Neither the rainbows hidden amidst the rocks,
Nor the footprints gathered by the shores.
I do not surge forth with the waves,
Nor do I get tossed with the tide,
I do not venture out with the fishermen,
Nor do I wander with the moon.
I do not wait for the horizon,
That loses its self in your embrace,
And the rivers that drown their turbulence,
In the quiet of your being,
And the skies that borrow,
Quiet for the drifting flakes of snow,
Colors for the clouds, and
Rhythm for the drops of rain, and
Songs for the breeze, from you.
But where am I and who am I?
Do not define my abode, O, pilgrim!
Nor search your meanings in my words,
Just come to me, my friend!
Like a boat to the horizon,
A river to the ocean, or
The waves to the shore,
And just be with me, my friend!
A song in the storm, and
The quiet in the tempest,
The island in the ocean,
And ocean in the drops,
Neither searching nor offering,
Neither questioning nor answering,
O, the wandering hermit soul!
Just be with me my friend,
Stranded on this island of being. |
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