For though we might,
We cannot fight the wind;
Try as we may,
The mist eludes our grasp;
Shadows defy our clutches,
Rainclouds form,
The sun and moon rise and set
Despite our will;
Controlling nothing,
Still we do not see,
And frame our lives with an order
That is illusion,
Timetables and inventories
Of ignorance;
Labels and times and convenience
We set in stone that crumbles
Like sand before the winds
Of Impermanence;
Change is the symphony,
And fluid the score
Of this dharmakayic waltz,
And though we dance
We fancy ourselves but
Onlookers to the show;
That when the crashing finale
Resounds -- as it must --
We stop our ears and wail;
Not seeing, deaf to the choir
That has but turned the page
To sing a new song;
Our own melody ended,
We fade only to be played anew
From the string of another bow;
The song goes on, rising, falling,
And Bliss is the one
Who follows as the Piper leads
With Namu Amida Butsu.
A Pure Land Buddhist poem.
