The Being That Walks

What could I possibly fear
if I am not the one who walks
but the Being, always here,
that gives life to hills and rocks?

Go on with your story, wanderer.
Dream your nights, and walk by day.
Your errant roaming, near or far,
was chosen long before today.

Rejoice, leap up from your chair.
For the end of all your fears
is waiting on the shore, right there.
Caress the sorrows of your years.

Stop, and breathe the glorious scent,
for something round you always blooms.
Sing to the sun-king's bright ascent,
watch how inertia stings and fumes.

So hush, for once, and hear me out:
Life is only ever now,
joy is always plentiful, no doubt,
and peace is never late, I vow.

Here, open up your heart,
rub the drowsiness from your sight,
hone your reason's keenest part,
and in the Nothing here alight.

I have nothing to teach you, friend;
only let your soul be heard.
When you fall and do not bend,
you'll take each step, calm and unstirred.

Then you'll behold, as well,
before you even see it there,
that the fragrance that you smell
is your own breathing of the air.

And so, in June as in December,
the white rose glows upon its stalk.
I am your whole walk, remember,
I am the Being that walks.