The true mystic is a lion
with the face of a kitten.
Only his own kind know who he is.
He speaks in the softest words –
so soft, their name is “silence” –
yet his tone resounds for days.
He is a presence without presence:
a stillness full of motion.
While seated, he soars;
over water, he strides.
Like an invisible wind
you never see him, though
he works to great effect.
Eating little, relishing everything;
he never argues, but always wins.
His life is a happy contradiction.
The people think he is nothing –
a kind of innocent child –
to which he whole-heartedly agrees…
For it is this very nothingness
that makes him great.
with the face of a kitten.
Only his own kind know who he is.
He speaks in the softest words –
so soft, their name is “silence” –
yet his tone resounds for days.
He is a presence without presence:
a stillness full of motion.
While seated, he soars;
over water, he strides.
Like an invisible wind
you never see him, though
he works to great effect.
Eating little, relishing everything;
he never argues, but always wins.
His life is a happy contradiction.
The people think he is nothing –
a kind of innocent child –
to which he whole-heartedly agrees…
For it is this very nothingness
that makes him great.