It soars beyond mind as an eagle soars above the shattered egg from which it hatched. It is brimming and void at once. We bend our mental bows to their utmost, firing terms like "God" and "Allah" and "Brahman" in our effort to bring it to earth, to our world of creation, but this eagle ever soars out of range. Creation will never circumvent consciousness, because it consists of pure consciousness alone.
Just now here in this garden
A lizard basks atop a Buddha's head
Sunning itself in a flower pot.
From the pool a fountain rises
Then falls in a thousand sparkling drops
Splashing, churning, returning,
Incarnate again in fountain evanescence
But for that single drop, or two,
Who disintegrate, free at last for good
From this roiling round of birth and death.
Just now here in this garden
A lizard basks atop a Buddha's head
Sunning itself in a flower pot.
From the pool a fountain rises
Then falls in a thousand sparkling drops
Splashing, churning, returning,
Incarnate again in fountain evanescence
But for that single drop, or two,
Who disintegrate, free at last for good
From this roiling round of birth and death.
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