The Little Cowherd Boy
What the great sages seek in silence,
what the mystics trace through the shadows of thought,
what the yogī pursues with breath held still
and eyes closed upon the void,
It's a little cowherd boy.
A child with skin the color of rain about to fall,
with a peacock feather the wind cannot take from him,
who walks barefoot among the cows
and knows the name of every one.
He is not in the ether, not in abstraction,
not an idea, not a principle, not a force.
He is someone who receives love,
and who returns it in ways
the heart cannot finish counting.
The great seekers looked for him inward,
they crossed oceans of silence to find him,
and in the end they found him outside,
standing in a green field,
Laughing and playing his flute.

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