at the point when minds do not mind
when you are like a haze
or mist that the morning is too familiar
with such that
when you are gone
no one notices
who comes and goes
the motives come in hordes
and ask you
which one? ahh, i pick the one for which i am sure of
it is not the money
not the fame, it is the letting go of what i treasure
it is the scratching of what itches
the releasing of what is jailed
it is freedom and compassion
the doves and the flowers
it is the road and the journey
it is not the cottage that provides temporary rest
it is the homing
that permanency that we are all thirsting
it is always there in that distance
it is not here, not today.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem