The voice of your tears,
is the fragrance of your heart when it smiles,
is the color of your freedom.
Winds of peace, let me be your paint,
Paint me like the clouds over the sky,
On the face of a refugee,
On the falling rocks of holy rage,
On the abyss of fear,
On the eyes of an oppressed child,
On the mouth of a hungry ghost.
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The voice of your tears,
is the fragrance of your heart when it smiles,
is the color of your freedom.
Winds of peace, let me be your paint,
Paint me like the clouds over the sky,
On the face of a refugee,
On the falling rocks of holy rage,
On the abyss of fear,
On the eyes of an oppressed child,
On the mouth of a hungry ghost.
I will have no form.
Please come softly,
Or you'll find my door closed
My house empty, I'm not there.
Confused and shrunk I am nowhere to be found,
Please blow softly.
Wake me up with a warm and tender hand,
So I can be here
To be your paint.
by Hagit Harmon
written at Plum Village, Summer 2000
Hagit, Deep Aspiration on Love of the Heart, lives in Israel and practices with the Jerusalem Sangha.
