We do not move
from here to there.
We do not grow
from this into that.
Ever at rest in the changeless
chaos of love,
we only
awaken,
seven billion minds
dissolving in one tear
which we call the heart,
this drop without a center.
After the dream we find
no vital distinction
between a petal and its fragrance,
the grape skin and its nectar,
moldering tar
of our ancestor's body
and a fiery diadem.
This is the law.
Things become more precious
when they get crushed.
The bones of the earth
are the bones of heaven.
The 'O' of your prayer
has no circumference.
Therefore it is perfectly
silent.
Water color by Andrew Wyeth
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