At the Threshold
By: Don Hynes
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 sorrow I said
“Grandfather, your gompa was destroyed by the 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, “nothing can destroy the
inner temple.”
Seeking what I do not know
the thirst I cannot taste
the path I cannot see
the greatest happiness
grows hollow;
empty of what clouds the mystery
I journey to the center
senses drained, 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.