This is a deep laughter.
You are all the rivers reaching to the ocean, where the sky seems to disappear into the earth – that “there” which is here. At dawn I bathe in the warmth of your compassionate love and understanding, and when dust settles, one can see the vast firmament reflected in your eyes, where the distant echoes of unforgettable melodies can be heard in the silence of your songs.
You are truth, you are love, you are beauty. And yet all of this, for the one who finds it, is said to be but nothingness.
Osho, forgive me if, in the attempt to thank existence for all these blessings of your presence here, I fall short of something intelligent to say and sound like a poet without poetry.
I just don’t know anymore. It is all so vast that this heart can only repeat on and on: thank you.
Buddham Sharanam Gachchhami,
Sangam Sharanam Gachchhami,
Dhammam Sharanam Gachchhami.
Nivedano, don’t feel that you fall short of something intelligent to say. All that is really intelligent, is impossible to say. And it is not just a coincidence that whatever you say sounds like poetry, although you are not a poet.
There are poets and there are poets. There are poets who compose poetry; they are composers. Their poetry is shallow. It is only a linguistic and grammatical game. They know the technique of how to create the fallacy of something being poetry. And there are poets who are not even aware of their poetry. They are not composers; but their hearts are so full of love and beauty and truth that whatever they say becomes poetry. It may have the form of prose; that does not matter.
You have to understand this: there are poems which have only the form of poetry, but they are really prose. And there are pieces of prose which have the form of prose, but are really poetry.
Poetry and prose are not a question of form; it is a question of content. Even silence can be poetry. Listen to this silence…this silence can defeat any Shakespeare, any Kalidas, any Milton. These birds are not composing poetry. Just the beautiful sun and the beautiful trees are making them explode into singing. They don’t know the art of composing poetic pieces. Do you think peacocks go to a school to learn dancing – katthak? – or cuckoos go to a school of music? What can a school of music teach a cuckoo? A cuckoo is already cuckoo enough.