by Boris D. Schleinkofer
Tuesday, April 02, 2002
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The man wearing rags has held thousands of names
All of them different, all one and the same
Forgotten, the one given him upon birth
Sounding the axis-rotation of Earth
The stars up above align Samsara-Age
So nobody knows he's the Sadhana-Sage
And so we mistake it for ranting and rave
Singing his songs to the walls of his cave
I met him one morning while crossing the street
Amusing myself with observing my feet
He grabbed up my glance with invisible hands, so
I stopped there to talk with this crazy rag-man
He spat on the sidewalk, looked to both sides, and whispered to me:
"In this world so structured hence,
Everything becomes a choice.
Just select your preference,
Will-in-motion, hands and voice.
Each thought forms the Godhood-Name,
Single leaves upon the tree.
Time runs back & forward same,
When you've mastered memory.
Each Name bears the born-less Sun,
Left to wander till its done;
Peptides, quartz, electrons too,
Different terms for Cosmic Glue.
All the World sees through my eyes;
This I fully realize.
And these words that catch your ear,
You'll understand, if you'll but hear.
Ride nirvana past your death
On the wavelength of your breath.
For Sky is boundless, soul of all,
And karma forms the only wall
'Tween waging battle throughout time
And union in the Diamond-Mind."
I didn't have that much to say
And so I turned and walked away