The blind monk sits still, upon the hill.
calm and quiet, in the tranquility will.
he listens to the shallow waves of gray at his hind.
and thanks the one who gave him blind.
he chants the voice of the higher nil.
and devotes his body to the time mill.
he feels the breath of the devil beside him.
but has no fear, for the voices guide him.
vines tangle between his fingers.
his cloak is nothing but strips of fibers.
and the gentle stream, now giant rivers.
"it is time" he says.
the blind monk mummers.
"time for the great vision"
his body shakes and his soul quivers.
his tremor ends with a crack in the sky.
shadows are bright, and the storm brings the tide.
all is hallow, and all is full.
senses dim.
the monk sits still in the center of all that surrounds him.
all is none. none is all.
the higher one has spoken.
and the flames call.
The blind monk can now see the wind.
which cascades the mountains, and in to the hymn.
the blind monk can now taste the sky.
he breaths the light and exhales the color of black and white.
the blind monk feels the shift of the ground.
his heart beats with the shake of high mound.
he now sees a light, and chants to the one.
shining down, from the black void, brighter then the sun.
the blind monk sees the vision that bleeds.
the blind monk sees all that could be.
the blind monk sees all that is none.
the blind monk sits and dreams like a poet
and all what he dreams, he sits within upon.
