Saints are not poets because
Poets are caught in the web of passion.
They write about human suffering,
Which the Buddha said is common to all beings.
The sage is not bound by that rope;
He has replaced passion with compassion.
So there are no poems at his fingertips,
Though the real poetry,
The glory of creation,
Shines in the cave of his heart
And every cell rejoices in mute testimony
To the life – force
That flows through us all.
Sing a song of wonderment.
And give thanks, give thanks, give thanks.
The trees stand against the sky –
Something is expressing.
What is there to understand?
