Seeing all,
she crosses over
and never rests.
Ever giving,
she crosses over
and heals heart’s wounds.
Moving swiftly,
she crosses over
and unfetters the shackled mind.
Embracing everyone,
she crosses over
and darkness retreats.
© 2007 by Georg Feuerstein. All rights reserved. traditionalyogastudies.com
Mother!
Nursing on your broad body,
I have grown strong in limb and thought.
Never have I lacked the necessities of life,
and I have even taken more
than needed and, sometimes,
more than what was good for me.
Mother!
Not once did you hesitate to succor me;
not once did your generosity falter.
However far afield I wander,
every molecule of air exudes your kindness;
every droplet of water is a tear of love;
every ounce of soil your fond offering.
Mother!
Forgive your child all his foolish excesses
and reckless exploitations.
Over and over have I plundered and wounded you
like a nocturnal thief,
thinking you would not notice or mind,
or not thinking anything at all.
Mother!
You lie before me bleeding,
and I am the callous cause of your plight.
Unable to hide my guilt or shame,
I stand trembling at your righteous wrath,
which is as certain as your love.
© 2007 by Georg Feuerstein. All rights reserved. traditionalyogastudies.com
Most people prettily color the outside
and leave the inside in shambles.
Some busily paint the inside
unconcerned about the outside.
A few, only a few renovate the inside
and the outside
for all-round joy.
© 2007 by Georg Feuerstein. All rights reserved. traditionalyogastudies.com
I call this body my own.
Yet, how human can it be
when trillions of microbes
make it their home?
It is better to view it
as a meeting ground
for diverse forms of life
wanting to survive.
Why then all these proprietary feelings?
Who owns the Moon, the Sun, this Earth?
© 2007 by Georg Feuerstein. All rights reserved. traditionalyogastudies.com
Strike not the least cleft into the original wood
lest your head should split from sheer fright
and joy should fade as thoughts rise
like vapor in the porous mind.
Happily, the timeless, selfsame wood
ever remains uncleaved in flawless mystery,
even as the mind proudly swings its ax,
creating a ceaseless cascade of evanescent sparks.
‘Ihe old oak stands firm.
It is the mind that bends and groans
in the wind-swept space of its own design.
© 2007 by Georg Feuerstein. All rights reserved. traditionalyogastudies.com