There is a way of seeing the world different
Than all the ingenious imaginings that indigenous intellectuals
See. So totally different, and yet not other.

Different than this world constructed from opaque notions
Yet somehow more than just a world of wondrous poetical wondering,
Searching for a theme…
The such and so of the poets’ soulful wanderings…

Yet about which, there can be nothing to say
Because there is Truth beyond the intelligible
Which this epiphany of naturing subsumes
That is not seen — for there is nothing to see beyond
So much so, poets fret over the workings of this world,
As if their interior paramour is not the full presence of the Truth.

So an alien world perhaps… different, yet well grounded
Not some Elysium place.
Grounded upon the necessity of eternal naturing
That only some seem to notice to be so
And nothing more.

This other way of seeing — not real until encountered fully
In the visceral fullness of noticing
The rest not noticing that they are noticing not,
But rather, as early morning mist rises to blanket still waters — 
That from which it arises — 
The poets’ poetical wondering blankets their stillness
From which all for them arises — 
This eternal nascent naturing is not noticed…

In its full potential not seen,
The view being constrained by intellectual limitations…
Not seen, yet implicated by its absence
Not seen — for senses see not what is not there to see.
Vision sees what eyes cannot see
Unconstrained by the equipment deployed
Vision being the veritable All-Seeing, that sees what eyes see not.

Vision being what is noticing fully
It is not a tool of the poet anymore than words are.
The poet being simply the tool.
And this is the terrible truth of one who speaks of what is real — 
And what is not.

To understand this is to envision the world as the true Poet — 
As She is — creative founder of the edifice,
And what is missing
From what is not.

ཨེ་མ་ཧོ། ཕན་ནོ་ཕན་ནོ་སྭཱཧཱ།
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