The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Thursday, September 22, 2016

A Clear Midnight

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the
         wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the
         lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering
         the themes thou loves best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.

 --Walt Whitman
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