Past the first awareness is the seed,
source untouched by any craving need,
spark forever steadfast in its light,
constant in reflection and in fight:
thinker is but thought, and doer deed.
Sacred text in hand, the lion waits;
teaching is the path through golden gates
reaching other realms and then
byssal depths of light beyond all ken.
Flawless question given, answers dissipate.
Lion for reflection on the plains,
Free of deep delusion, in the rains
sees the golden grasses and the sky;
golden eyes outlook all things that die.
Thoughts devoid of craving know no pain:
self once overcome, no self remains.
Some poems are not made
to move the mind,
but only hold the object
as it were in crystal,
and others still in words to say
what words can barely hold,
or yet to play a game
with counters on the page.
But this one has no point,
no purpose and no end,
save to remind of you.