From the inside out, these are my layers: bad, good, bad, good and now- new - bad again. They attach beneath my skin, nested one inside the other like Matryoshka dolls, anchored with a pin through each skull at the top. They ring like a bell, scream and peal, complain, when layers and outsides clash. Beneath the layers, there is nothing: unbounded emptiness like the equation of the universe inverted so that one equals zero.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Chant.
Having striven, brahman, cut the stream.
Expel sensual passions.
Without abandoning sensual passions
a sage encounters no oneness of mind.
If something's to be done, then work at it firmly,
for a slack going-forth kicks up all the more dust.
It's better to leave a misdeed undone.
A misdeed burns you afterward.
Better that a good deed be done
that, when you've done it,
you don't regret.
Just as sharp-bladed grass, if wrongly held,
wounds the very hand that holds it —
the contemplative life, if wrongly grasped,
drags you down to hell.
Any slack act, or defiled observance,
or fraudulent life of chastity
bears no great fruit.
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1 comment:
Beautiful....in both pictures and words....
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