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THE MORNING POEM
Waiting
The song I came to singremains unsung to this day.I have spent my days in stringingand in unstringing my instrument.The time has not come true,the words have not been rightly set;only there is the agonyof wishing in my heart…..I have not seen his face,nor have I listened to his voice;only I have heard his gentle footstepsfrom the road before my house…..But the lamp has not been litand I cannot ask him into my house;I live in the hope of meeting with him;but this meeting is not yet.
teaandzen.org
Get full access to Tea and Zen - Threads at teaandzen.substack.com/subscribe
In the quiet between heartbeats a whisper calls you home, you are not broken you are becoming. These threads of silence and sound are letters from the threshold, offerings from the edge of stillness. Nigel TEA AND ZEN - MAIN LIBRARY
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By Nigel LottWaiting
The song I came to singremains unsung to this day.I have spent my days in stringingand in unstringing my instrument.The time has not come true,the words have not been rightly set;only there is the agonyof wishing in my heart…..I have not seen his face,nor have I listened to his voice;only I have heard his gentle footstepsfrom the road before my house…..But the lamp has not been litand I cannot ask him into my house;I live in the hope of meeting with him;but this meeting is not yet.
teaandzen.org
Get full access to Tea and Zen - Threads at teaandzen.substack.com/subscribe
In the quiet between heartbeats a whisper calls you home, you are not broken you are becoming. These threads of silence and sound are letters from the threshold, offerings from the edge of stillness. Nigel TEA AND ZEN - MAIN LIBRARY
DONATE