End of Sufferings

turn inward,
not to the page of thought,
but to the still white silence
behind the thought—
suffering fades
like stars at dawn

not conquered,
not destroyed—
only seen for what it is:
a mist of dreams,
drifting over a sea
that’s unmoving, at ease

the body aches,
the mind stirs,
the world arrives in a
thousand disguises
to tempt, to frighten, to bind—
but these are only waves
on the surface of the
unbroken mirror
that you are

you are not the body,
you never were
though you dwell in its house
you are not the mind,
though it weaves the
illusion of you
you are awareness itself—
clear, formless, unborn

the moment you forget this,
you wander—
into time, into fear,
into stories that break
your heart and remake it,
only to break it again

this is samsara—
the spinning wheel
of names and forms,
of endless becoming,
tireless transactions
with no arrival, no departure

but pause
be still
let the noise pass.

sink into that which notices
the seer, the witness
not what is seen,
but the seeing
not the thought,
but the space it rises from
not even the breath,
but the stillness in which it moves

and here what you hear—
there is no suffering
no you to suffer
only the vast,
infinite,
freedom
of being

let the world whirl
you have remembered
you have returned
from the face in the glass
to your loving trace
by the shining light
an incessant grace