A poem by Rashid.
Here’s the thing about existence,
it’s far too big for words.
even poetry whose lines
don’t make it to the far side of the page.
Note how the windscreen wipers
counterpoint the bass drum on the radio
the grey brown landscape flashing past
counterpoints the bright blues of Van Gogh inside my head.
This is it! Yet what does it mean?
love and hate, war in Mali, peace in Vietnam
bankers with too much, battery hens too little,
what do all these oppositions mean?
The car jinks left and holds a long curve right
driving through a sea of sky reflected.
I sat for thirteen years with Osho;
he left, I’m sitting with him still.
How do we find our way in life?
there is no way, he said.
the very idea of a way misguides
instead of going, think of coming.
The car drives through a Van Gogh sea of windscreen wiper music
all the while the world goes flashing by.
nothing in existence has a meaning.
everything has – significance.
And what about who really is the driver?
who lives behind the eyes and ears?
what about this consciousness that hasn’t moved?
As I said it’s far too big for words.
All articles and poems by this author on Osho News