Sunset on the Mountain, and then a wild wind’s chilly sutra, chanted in the dusky crack between two realms, invokes another night’s emergence.
Stony crags tower and glisten in the icy moonlight flooding the slopes, while this hapless heart hangs, impaled, upon their granite spears, surrendered to the evening.
Who can answer for this pulsing wound that beats within our chest? Whatever we call “our life” – here it is, in so many words, what words can never say.
Have a heart!
The musings of abstruse dharma, philosophy’s elegant pantomime, provided no lasting peace. It only held a distant mirror to my inarticulate ruin.
The wise ones learned to throw off the chains of wanting, of needing, of demanding to know. How often their kind advice has since fallen on deaf ears!
That sense of separate self, a poignant fearfulness, will only seek the safety place, wrapped tight in its own wry confirmation, warmed by the imaginative tinder that mind burns for itself to ward off its own looming extinction.
When you opened the door before dawn and found me, head slightly tilted into the night, eyes climbing up into the breaking dawn of your solar smile, I was wearing a mask from the underworld, a mask you had not touched but only dreamed of, and so I slipped into that dream to find you, to hold you and touch your wound, which we have always shared.
What did we know then, or even now? We were given these wan transparent masks to wear over the ruined beauty of our fragile innocence, a gift from blind elders for the ghost banquet of our reunion at the heart.
When you invited me across your threshold, I sensed in my blood that everything I knew was going to die, but I had no mask for my death — it demands a kind of nakedness that my artifice cannot disguise.
You lifted my face to yours and my mask fell off, and no, it really doesn’t matter — it just fell off. Death is a simplicity, with no reference but itself.
You looked down and you saw yourself, your own love, come back from the dream worlds of echoing wounds to touch you, to come to rest in you and make love to itself without prior images, without the futile and pleasureless masks of memory.
This is how your own mask began to crumble — imperceptibly as dawn, and we could not hear it then, the peacock song was too strong, we were consumed in that eloquent melody, and because it is kind and very patient, something nameless smiled and began to fill our infinite room with the intoxicating fragrance of immaculate white light, such that even our secret masks became translucent, so suddenly they could no longer blind us to this holy wound’s sheer radiance.
Neither pain, nor fear, nor the inevitable revelation of our impermanence — love’s mysterious grand charade — could ever mask the unbearable beauty alive as this wound at the heart.