The beauty of truth and its
subtleties is like the mist in the old garden. It is not in belief and dogma;
it never is where man can find it for there is no path to its beauty; it is not
a fixed point, a haven of shelter.
The beauty of truth and its
subtleties has its own tenderness whose love is not to be measured nor can you
hold it, experience it.
It has no market value to be
used and put aside. It is there when the
mind and heart are empty of the things of thought.
The homeless playing drums in
the streets, or the monk in his cell, are not near it, nor the rich in
exclusivity; neither the intellectual nor the gifted can touch it.
The one who says he knows has
never come near it.
Be far away from the world and
yet live it.
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