Seventy-One


Thinking one knows is the affliction.

Knowing one doesn't know

is to move again toward wholeness.


The wise ones are no longer ill

because they grow sick of sickness and

weary of weariness.

Aware of

the roots of their ailments,

they heal themselves.


Attuned to stillness,

awash in flawless silence,

the wise ones exchange crude ideas

for a cosmic energy which is

infinitely more subtle

and refined.


It is available to

whoever witnesses but does not judge,

whoever sees but does not say,

whoever understands there is a greater

harmony at play.


The Real

runs

perfectly smooth

without the thorny concepts

of

me, I, or mine.


The Real knows.