One has to have been quiet a long time
To observe the trees, bowing in the wind,
And not feel saddened by their immobility,
By the solemnity of their roots;
But instead to sense the sound of their immortal water:
A stream which, whilst you listen,
Also moves within you.

One has to have been quiet a long time,
To stand beneath the convex mirror of the autumn sky
And hear naked the voice of the wind,
Distinct from the names we have given it;
From its seemingly-sad murmur,
And its consequences.

One has to have been quiet a long time,
To realise that the dull or difficult moments in silence
Are often the dark hollows
In which all blossoms must first be conceived.

One has to have been quiet a long time,
To witness the shadow that trembles between the soul and space,
Between yourself and the silence,
That is carried on invisible rivers of wind,
That we call the ‘human mind’.

One has to have been quiet a long time,
To realise that Truth is not composed of any number of true things
Or the ancients’ mystic words about them,
Or this or that measure of reality;
But of a simple knowing
That rests in itself,
Refers only to itself,
And is everywhere.

One has to have been quiet a long time,
To recognise that the simple beauty
Shared in by the soil and the stars,
Is also shared in by your blood, your consciousness.

One has to have been quiet a long time,
To realise that the seed
Contains the shade of the tree,
And the silence
That you will soon become.

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