Dust of distraction
everywhere
the opposite
of composure.
Bringing lips
to silence
is the aim
of the collected heart
In the workshop
of learning the perfections of civility
no one has seen
(besides the posturing
politenesses of courtesy)
any outward show of virtue
of composure.
Be
spinebound
for a moment
held together
by attentive slow reflection.
Your compendium of inner meaning
has come apart
from all those proofs
and heartfelt demonstrations
of composure.
In the busy factory of lust
there’s no need
for all of this.
You are a subject
in the realm of rich sufficiency.
Don’t apologize
for composure.
Don’t fasten hope
to the illusion
that your coinpurse
is a great imperial treasury
full of breaths.
Such scattered currency
is not worth
collecting.
Where can we haul
the grief
of our lowly
heavy
souls?
We have to pull
only with a single camel
the baggage
of composure.
You’re depressed
hardened
from imagining
attachments. Otherwise
You’d come undone
as separate elements
dust
water
in this body
of collected clay.
In this ocean
waves grow
in search of pearls.
You skim the surface
fleeting and impatient
seeking
a collected heart.
Do not neglect
the footprint tally
at your feet.
Like candle tears
consider this expenditure
to be a contribution
to composure.
Bīdel
in this vineyard
countless clusters
ripened into seeds.
Besides distraction
there was nothing
in the harvest
of composure.
Bubble
Like me
a bubble
surfaced
soaked to the bone
in the clothing of existence.
By the power
of this garment
the bubble
has arisen
from itself.
The world does not gleam
with sweet and sumptuous songs
and has no instruments
unfolding pomp and pride.
The bubble
has arrived
with head and crown
that offer
only sweat.
We tore apart the knots
of meditative thinking
in a thousand places.
With every moment
every breath
pearls
came
as bubbles
before our eyes.
What can anyone accomplish
while holding fast
the reins
of breath?
The bubble
has arrived
riding
in a boat
without an anchor.
Do not grow arrogant
absorbed
in the illusion
of this brief life’s persistence.
Few and meager
are the bubbles
that appear
on surfaces
of shallow streams.
Don’t drink the glass
of freshly flowing lucid mirth
for the sake
of something
dry.
In the end
bubbles
can escape
even from the slowest liquid
of blown glass.
You don’t have a single moment.
What hope is there then
to delay?
The bubble
has hatched.
Inside
it’s still an egg
in outward form
all wings.
Don’t inquire
about the circumspect procedures
of civility
in this ocean’s court.
The bubble
has entered
through these royal doors
holding its breath.
Messengers of nonexistence
bring glad tidings
of such desire
when
decked with flowers
wineglass in hand
the bubble
has arrived.
Do not complain
about the generous feast
if you don’t have a seat.
In the sea
the bubble
has appeared
emptyhanded
wineglass
overturned.
We’ve woven flowers
in our hair
picked from a garden
we suspect might have a phoenix.
A bubble
has come
into existence
rising
from
some other
nonexistence.
Bīdel
door to door
how vainly does he brag
about his products—
these mere breaths.
Do not scrutinize
their density
or their substance.
The bubble
that’s arisen
is vanishingly
lean.
