Gate

Passing the building made of stone

outlines of people in the windows.

Are they watching the patch-robed

monk passing by?

What experiences brought them here?

What truths do they have?

When the seasons change for the 

last time of the present life,

experience, truth, non-truth - merge

a final push to reach further

down the path.

The road leads where the mind thinks

in not thinking the road disappears.

The snowy fields beyond the

closed gate neither sing nor cry.

They wait silently.

Even the falling snow makes no sound.

And the echo you hear is my heart racing

as I stand at the closed gate.

Reviews

[Lobos]

This is so deep, I'm speechless.