Poetry of nothingness : Dearest Zhitong


Dearest Zhitong


Dearest Zhitong, the same of water is true of other things:

Although the hurricane is made of wind,

The hurricane is not the wind.

Although the wind may become a hurricane,

The wind is still itself.


Anima, animus, shadow, ego

Volatile, pulling silk stringed tongues &

Chasing the simian mind.

From your eight century secret grave

You whisper to me, even now. . .


The cold winter wind

That howls, destroys, terrifies

Is also the soft breeze.


So it is Indra’s net then, yes?

Teach me to speak in a language

Where words are not geometry

But images of animals, mountains, sky.

And tell me in a simple way so I can. . .


Even the hawk and vulture

Understand the wisdom of

The wind.


There is nothing to grasp

And it is beautiful.


—K.M. McCann


About Lightning Heart (Vikara)

Nomad. Poet. Philosopher. Teacher. View all posts by Lightning Heart (Vikara)

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