Buddhist Teachings

The blade is not a tool for killing,  

The flower is not a thing of frailty.  

In the void they meet,  

Edge and vein both become strokes of the brush,  

Together etching a painting of heaven and earth.  

The warrior and the poet sometimes walk the same path:  

Both seize eternity in a single moment between motion and stillness.  

The strike not yet delivered, the intent already full;  

The mark not yet left, the meaning already revealed.  

Rain washes the glow of sunset, night passes without a trace,  

The blade’s edge hides in nature,  

Killing intent dissolves into beauty.  

Perhaps the ultimate form of all art  

Lies in restraining human desire,  

In yielding to the rhythms of heaven.  

The blade may cut a flower, or it may cut a cloud;  

The Way lies not in the blade, nor in the flower,  

But in the instant the blade swings and the petals fall—  

When void suddenly connect.