The centre of the mandala is everywhere, Wherever the eye falls The mystery begins to unfold; it is there, The growing-point of love, an ever-opening rose Perceived as light on leaf or shadow under, And in the brooding heart the wings stir Of the bird whose flight is through a thousand skies. The centre of the mandala is the secret We have always known: Sometimes a hazel-nut in the palm of the hand, Sometimes it covers the whole sky, Or rains down on a city Making strange places all familiar Because the light that touches them is our own. The centre of the mandala is possibility Of incarnation, seed of the tree About whose beams the myriad stars turn, I the infinity where all selves converge Into the perennial circle of the sun. |