The singular eye sees not itself. The hand which grasps does not feel. Philosophers dream circles, as hammers pound the wheel. In the spaces between the knowing and the known, Truth connects forever the doer to his deeds. And action is the expression of all power— Fickle as the butterfly standing in a field of weeds. And all which sees is seen incomplete, Except where the Silence and the Chaos meet. There is but one who stands in wait, trembling and alone; Fear was just a man, and yet god of the Unknown. Like outstretched fingers, a reaching mind touches thoughts which do not rise from a single place within. Like wind through the leaves of a creeping vine combine to heave a sigh, the Symphony begins… From zero to the stars, the finite intervenes; As for singers and their songs, only rainbows stand between. Upon the thin line of this horizon which divides the Earth from Sky, We stand as forlorn angels because the tightrope was a lie. But seekers are successful when they leave their doubts behind; For all which holds this from that is a shadow on the mind. To draw the Infinite Circle, where does one begin? A circle is spawned from the centre, which is every point within! What arises? What is new? In Time’s preserving moment, the paradox employed; All things are forever, and yet forever are destroyed. Space unfolds within itself. Time enfolds the dream. Atoms know the crash of suns, as love outruns the stream. And these sheets fly tattered within the mind to the breaths of spirits who set the gales Pounding down the lone imprisoned soul who alas finds freedom by making sails. And there he sits in silence as the ocean quiets down. The raging storms have passed to breath which he harbors now. Take heed of what renews itself in seed. Make thee whole again and know that you are He! A tree drinks down the sun, and gathers for the night itself The Fire which we seek. Victory is only won in words, until the Day returns When Light is all we speak...
