Pain: A Haiku Suite

Pain is a flower
most folks pull from their garden
thinking it common.

How precious and rare
to be born in a human body
— even angels lust.

Some say that Yoga
is soft.  Easy.  For wimps.  Yes.
No.  It is a mirror.

Miracles do not blossom
in the intense heat
of skepticism.

Some pain is torture.
Some, pleasure.  The difference?
How I ask for it.

A rose with no thorns
is a teacher with no truth
a bowl with no food.

Inside every rock
a silent Buddha waiting
for the stone carver.

 
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