figmentation

The Sound of a Great Bird

The old path
and his footprints-
the perfume of time does not smell of the violet;
the color of time is not the color of the sky.

Dust on my way,
moss on the wild stone,
soot on the old wood-
time is not flowing.
The unlimited is concentrated-
above my head, the thundering sound of passing wings.

In his very hand is found
the power to open or to close.
Let the wanderer return to his starting point.
I find myself today all alone
at this crossroads
that offers both opening and closing,
mounting and decending.

In a startling moment
the echo of the ages,
the soun to fthe walking steps,
projected to the present
shakes me
awake.


~ Thich Nhat Hanh