No mystery

All thoughts, dreams, deeds are imperfect
in the world, there is no love.
Numerous barges, tankers, dry cargo ships and ocean yachts
go to and fro through the channel.
The cliffs, immersed in meditation, barely notice them.
In the world of stones all these metal and composite pieces
are only the rubbish on the body of water, nothing else.
But we should know - they can share their wisdom with us
at any time and anywhere.
After all, parallel universes intersect at the points of love
that open the hearts: small and large.
All hearts: stones', birds', snakes', paper dragons'
and even white and blue tigers',
purring like home cats
at the laps of Buddhist monks.

The golden light pours through the portals,
oozes through the top of the heads:
shaved, like a bubble, or round, like a ball,
until it fills each cell of the sinful bodies.
That's a daily simple miracle.
No mystery. I call it neurophysiology.
You might call it Joga.

Hare Krishna! Hare Rama!