Month: October 2007

  • We are what we think

    We are what we think.

    All that we are arises with our thoughts.

    With our thoughts we make the world.

    – Bhudda

  • The Death-Bed

    IMGP2149 jacaranda cemetery

    He drowsed and was aware of silence heaped
    Round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls;
    Aqueous like floating rays of amber light,
    Soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep.
    Silence and safety; and his mortal shore
    Lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death.

    Someone was holding water to his mouth.
    He swallowed, unresisting; moaned and dropped
    Through crimson gloom to darkness; and forgot
    The opiate throb and ache that was his wound.
    Water—calm, sliding green above the weir.
    Water—a sky-lit alley for his boat,
    Bird- voiced, and bordered with reflected flowers
    And shaken hues of summer; drifting down,
    He dipped contented oars, and sighed, and slept.

    Night, with a gust of wind, was in the ward,
    Blowing the curtain to a glimmering curve.
    Night. He was blind; he could not see the stars
    Glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud;
    Queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green,
    Flickered and faded in his drowning eyes.

    Rain—he could hear it rustling through the dark;
    Fragrance and passionless music woven as one;
    Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers
    That soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps
    Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace,
    Gently and slowly washing life away.

    He stirred, shifting his body; then the pain
    Leapt like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore
    His groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs.
    But someone was beside him; soon he lay
    Shuddering because that evil thing had passed.
    And death, who’d stepped toward him, paused and stared.

    Light many lamps and gather round his bed.
    Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live.
    Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet.
    He’s young; he hated War; how should he die
    When cruel old campaigners win safe through?

    But death replied: ‘I choose him.’ So he went,
    And there was silence in the summer night;
    Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep.
    Then, far away, the thudding of the guns.

    Siegfried Sassoon

    WWI poem quoted on Numb3rs

  • Mountain Forest in the mist

    Light rain, the mountain forest
    Is wrapped in mist,
    Slowly the fog changes
    To clouds and haze.
    Along the boundless river bank,
    Many crows.
    I walk to a hill overlooking the valley
    To sit in zazen.
    – Ryokan (1758-1831)