Plow your fields in the Unborn.
Release your hands from the plow.
Drop now the reins of the ox of mind.
Let the fields grow of themselves.
There are no furrows within the fields.
Only places to endlessly cultivate.
Atop the fields, clouds float,
Not clinging to the sky.
The sky is not attached to the clouds.
Its illimitable blue is a polished mirror.
A mirror that absorbs all objects
But reflects none.
Stare into it and you shall see
What you are, will be, and have always been.
In these fields, it is easier to stomp the earth,
Planting seeds with the foot and miss the ground
Than to stare into this mirror of sky
And not see it.
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