At the Threshold
Don Hynes
Years after the merciless bombing of the ancient lamaseries I came across an old monk on the road, his maroon robes threadbare, his pitiful shoes mended with tape and twine. “Where are you going grandfather” I asked. “To my gompa” the old man replied. Filled with sudden sorrow I replied “Grandfather, your gompa was destroyed, years ago, by the Chinese bombs.” He hadn’t been walking fast but when he stopped the movement of his energy was startling. He looked at me with fire in his cataract clouded eyes: “My gompa is here” he said, pointing to his heart. “No one can destroy the temple of the inner Deity.”
Seeking what I do not know,
the thirst for what I cannot taste
haunts the path I cannot see.
Even the greatest happiness
is hollow at the core,
empty of what would cloud
the invisible, inaudible mystery.
Proceeding to the center
senses drain, the heart wrung dry.
Why does this attract?
At the threshold nothing remains
yet the energy is rich and alive.
With wonder I take the final steps.