|
The Songs of No Coming and No Going
When I left home, I was a child.
Now I return an old man.
Villages still speaks with the same accent,
but my hair and beard are completely white.
The village children see me but don't recognize me.
They look at each other and giggle,
"Where have you come from, old sire?"
Where have you come from, old sir?
"I have come from the same place you have,
yet you don't know there is a link between us."
I stroke my snow-white beard this morning.
The young leaves on the trees are new and green.
They see no link between themselves and the seed
that took root so many years ago on this very land.
Villagers still speak with the same accent,
but after so many years, the village has become your village.
To your puzzled eyes, I am only a stranger, old visitor
arriving from some unknown world.
To come or to go, to depart or return--
who among us is not a wanderer?
Where have you come from, old sir?
You don't see. How could you?
Even if sing to you the old songs I learned in this village, I would still be a stranger in your eyes.
When I tell you, "This is my village,"
your eyes dance and you laugh.
And I laugh too, when you say I am telling a story.
The bamboo trees, the riverbank, the village hall--
everything is still here.
They have changed, yet they haven't.
A new bamboo shoot, a new red-tiled roof,
a new small lane,
a new child--
What is the purpose of my return?
I don't know.
There is a haunting image of the past.
The travelers has no real point of departure
and no point of arrival.
Who is he, this explorer of the triple worlds?
As if to a former life--
the sweet potatoes and turnip roots, the hay, the cottage--
I am back to my village.
But those with whom I worked and sang
are strangers to those I find today.
Everywhere are the children,
the red-tiled roofs,
the narrow lanes--
The past and the future look at each other,
and the two shores suddenly become one.
The path of return continues the journey.
_________________________________________________
Structure of Suchness
Do not scold the little birds.
We need their songs.
Do not hate your own body.
It is the altar for humanity's spirit.
Your eyes contain the trichiliocosm,
and your ears have sovereignty over the birds,
the springs, the rising tide,
Beethoven, Bach, Chopin,
the cries of the baby,
and the song that lulls her to sleep.
Your hands are flowers of love
that need not be picked by anyone,
and your forehead
is the most beautiful morning of all mornings.
Do not destroy the structure of suchness within you.
The corn, the grass, and the fragrance of the night
have all spoken out for peace.
I know a bullet may strike
the heart of the little bird this morning,
the bird that is celebrating life with all its might,
The corn, the grass, the fragrance of the night,
together with the stars and the moon--
all of us are doing our best.
We are doing everything we can
to keep you alive.
continue to page 4
|
|
