Not named as joy;
not named as happiness..
at the end of a thought
the eyes lifted; then,
only the senses;
only the senses’ action seen;
only the endless beauty
of the beautiful unnamed;
only the glory of the food
of the senses unattached;
where is the mind
in this perfect satisfaction?
who needs to name this blessing,
blithe? or to name it, bliss?
beyond a name;
yet known.
*
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
And how to refrain from trying to name it? From trying? Is it the lost continent of pure experience forever beyond the reach of the questing mind? Very disciplined (perhaps effortlessly) writing and thinking Michael. This was a 'joy' to read, to experience. Thanks, jim.