(A dharma poem)
A wanderer lived in a house of his bones,
With a mind like weather, never still, never known.
He roamed through rooms where shadows curled,
Believing them real, believing the world.
In the Hall of Habit he walked each day,
Tracing old footsteps worn smooth by delay.
For the kleshas whispered, soft but sly—
“Stay with us, friend; no need to try.”
Ignorance wrapped him in comforting night,
Saying, “Don’t look inward; avoid the light.”
Desire tugged gently, “Come chase what you lack.”
Aversion hissed sharply, “Push all that pushes back.”
Pride strutted proudly, “You’re better than most.”
Jealousy murmured, “But compare—don’t boast.”
Confusion drifted like a thickening mist,
And the wanderer walked on, unaware he was kissed
By the very afflictions he feared to see—
The bars of his cage, though he thought he was free.
One day he entered a quiet room,
A simple chamber bare without gloom.
No windows, no doors, no ornaments hung—
Just space, like a bell that had never been rung.
He sat on the floor, unsure what to do,
When a voice rose softly, ancient and true:
“Wanderer, wanderer, look and behold—
Your shadows persist because they’re not told
That you see them clearly, that you know their game.
Awareness transforms beyond what is named.”
He turned to the voice, but no one was there—
Only the stillness, alive in that very air.
So he breathed once deeply, and dared to remain,
Watching his thoughts like clouds in the rain.
Anger appeared with a fiery roar,
But he didn’t run, as he had before.
He bowed to its heat, and the flame turned clear—
A mirror of wisdom, no longer fear.
Desire arrived with a shimmering face,
But he saw through its promise of lasting grace.
It melted to warmth, appreciation pure—
A nectar of presence, simple and sure.
Ignorance came as a heavy stone,
But he held it gently, no longer alone.
It cracked into space, vast, open, bright—
Revealing awareness, his birthright light.
One by one, the afflictions transformed,
Not by force, nor by being outworn,
But by meeting them fully, awake and aware—
A deliberate seeing, a conscious care.
The wanderer rose from the room of his bones,
No longer a stranger to the truth he’d been shown.
Samsara still spun, but he spun no more—
For he walked with intention through every door.
And the house of bones, once narrow and small,
Became a palace with infinite hall.
Each step was practice, each breath a vow—
To live in awareness, here and now.
So the tale is simple, the meaning clear:
We wander in circles when we hide from fear.
But the moment we look with a steady heart’s flame,
The shadows reveal they were wisdom in frame.
Awakening isn’t an accident’s art—
It’s the quiet, deliberate turning of heart.
A practice of presence, a luminous thread,
Guiding the wanderer home to the light he once fled.