Guest guest Posted June 12, 2000 Report Share Posted June 12, 2000 Poetry from Call Me By My True Names by Thich Nhat Hanh THE SOUND OF A GREAT BIRD The old path and his footsteps- the perfume of time does not smell of the violet; the color of time is not the color of the sky. Dust on my way moss on the wild stone, soot on the old wood- time is not flowing. The unlimited is concentrated- above my head, the thundering sound of passing wings. In his very hand is found the power to open or to close. Let the wanderer return to his starting point. I find myself today all alone at his crossroads that offers both opening and closing, mounting and descending. In a startling moment the echo of the ages, the sound of the walking steps, projected to the present shakes me awake. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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