Buddha-Poet, under a tree
a little story
It was the beginning of the spring time. The cold, harsh winter had just ended. Little violet flowers could be seen sprouting from in between the snow on the ground. Warmth had started to sprout, sprout and spread slowly from the cold air. Everyone was glad for the beauty of the upcoming months. Very old men could be seen discussing the pleasantness of a soothing, warm wind. The world was blossoming. Everything was joyful.
A single, alone poet wandered in the parks absorbing all the colors around him and becoming gladder on every new sight, and sound, and smell. He stood on the bridge and gazed at the clear river that had become unfrozen and was flowing with grace. He saw some geese elegantly landing on the water, their padded feet cutting the water’s surface, throwing the water symmetrically on both sides. He felt the joy in this and was glad. He stood under a cherry tree and looked up at its branches. They were covered by pinkish white blossoms. He shook one of its branches and many of the flowers fell on him. He imagined that the tree was blessing him.
There were so many birds perching and flying, singing, restless with joy, lovely to the sight, melody to the ears. Some squirrels were racing on the grass, occasionally jumping in excitement and making kit-kit sounds that mixed with the chirping of the birds to make it an orchestra with so many performers. The atmosphere was radiant, the poet sat under a fragrant tree, pulled out his notebook and started writing about his surroundings.
His heart was singing, and whistling, and dancing, and writing. Tears of gratitude fell from his eyes for the nature, for this blessing of nature. When he had gathered enough honey into himself, he stood up and started walking. Although he was just Fifteen years old, his gait became like that of an old person, for drinking all these joys is a lot of maturity, isn’t it?
He walked for a long time and suddenly his eyes fell upon a small statue of Buddha under a big tree. It was made of white marble, that had taken a little yellowish complexion which made it more graceful. There was unparalleled calm on the face of Buddha, the calm that is sometimes spread on a pure white cloud. Buddha was sitting in his lotus pose. His head was a little bent, his eyes gazing inwards, as if gazing at everything, really everything from which nothing is excluded. That inward gaze contained the sweetest mystery there is. Suddenly, the Buddha opened his eyes. All the inward sweet, peaceful mystery suddenly became rays of laughing light emanating from the lively eyes. The poet was wonder-struck, his eyes closed on their own accord. The poet was lost in the poetry, a boy was lost in nature, a human was lost in the Buddha…
© Manan sheel.