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Issue #1392 - Friday, April 4, 2003 - Editor: Gloria Lee
I have nothing to say, and I am saying it, and that is poetry.
Love Poem to God
A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.
You know then that it is not
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.
The palm stands on the edge of
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.
Theater takes place all the
wherever one is & art simply
facilitates persuading one this
is the case.
open our eyes and ears seeing life
each day excellent as it is.
This realization no longer needs art.
On the higher levels of
spirituality, heaven and earth are one and the same. For the
truly righteous man, a stone is as valuable as a sacred book.
There is no distinction between the fruit and the blessing one
makes over it. Since God is one, everything is one.
Isaac Bashevis Singer,
Shadows on the Hudson
"Siddhartha listened. He
was now listening intently, completely absorbed,
quite empty, taking in everything. He felt that he had now completely
learned the art of listening. He had often heard all this before, all these
numerous voices in the river, but today they sounded different. He could no
longer distinguish the different voices - the merry voice from the weeping
voice, the childish voice from the manly voice. They all belonged to each
other: the lament of those who yearn, the laughter of the wise, the cry of
indignation and the groan of the dying. They were all interwoven and
interlocked, entwined in a thousand ways. And all the voices, all the goals,
all the yearnings, all the sorrows, all the pleasures, all the good and
evil, all of them together was the world. All of them together was the
stream of events, the music of life. When Siddhartha listened attentively to
this river, to this song of a thousand voices; when he did not listen to the
sorrow or laughter, when he did not bind his soul to any one particular
voice and absorb it in his Self, but heard them all, the whole, the unity;
then the great song of a thousand voices consisted of one word: Om -
From the book, "Siddhartha," by Hermann Hesse. Translated by Hilda Rosner,
published by Bantam Classic.
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