“Truth is a pathless land.” – Krishnamurti
The monk had tread his many ways
through virgin wood, o’er desert sand.
He’d also been where knowledge sways
and ingenuity displays
the grand.
And when the monk returned at last,
he found himself in hot demand.
The questions came on thick and fast
about the lands through which he’d passed.
He found this bland.
He couldn’t now recall that much –
or much that they would understand.
They only wanted such and such.
His subtler thoughts they couldn’t touch.
They saw that he was tanned.
He’d wandered off in search of Truth
and hoped to shake it by the hand.
He never found its shack, its booth.
It didn’t kick him in his tooth,
nor did it praise or reprimand.
It took him years before he knew
he’d met his goal, though not as planned.
His countrymen, a fickle crew –
they laughed at him but loved him, too.
They saw he walked in Truth – a pathless land.