Wednesday, April 6, 2016

Tao. The Poem. Verse 13 to 18.


Honor and shame
bind us to judgment—

suffering is bound
to our own pretense.

But seeing all as oneself—
one is free to be here for all.


Not seen, heard, nor felt—

Rising, not light.
Falling, not dark.
Formless form.

Hold the Ancient Way
to journey here and now.


Ancients were so unfathomable,
we only picture their appearance—

to be so murky as to settle into clarity,
so still to stir to life.


Empty and resonate
in silence—

see all rise and return
to the root.

Not knowing is all-suffering
but knowing the way loses all

to be always.


Best is nearly never known.
Next best is loved.
Then, feared—
the worst is scorned.

But words never do—
it appears
to happen


When the Way is forsaken—
responsibilities rise.

As knowledge ripens—
duplicity appears.

Then all becomes chaos—
blind faith persists.

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