Sutra #127

serene perfection is sublimely realized
in moments of still concentration

when the mind is not bounced
to and fro like a child’s plaything

but rests comfortably in the quietude
of the present, blissful moment.

i have never experienced stillness like this,
for my mind is a creature

of strange and erratic habits
and excruciatingly volatile sensibilities.

past endlessly merges with future
in the fragmented confines of my inner self,

and the present—if it does exist at all—
is but a promise as yet unrealized.

i have never smelt the sweet fragrance of spring
in the petals of the blossoming rosebud

nor have I seen the peaks of craggy mountains
rising majestically in the misty morning haze.

they exist as concepts and memories only
and thus they do not really exist at all.

reality abstracted from reality
becomes an empty canvas

of unrealized possibility.