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By Phan Tan Hai Silent night—waiting for the five aggregates to scatter with their karma. Where do you go, my friend? Calling into the tilted sky, a wild goose spreads its wings; I vow you cross the shore where sorrow ends. Opening the sutra, I read the Buddha’s words— immeasurable suffering through countless lives. Waiting for the candle to die with its flame, I vow all beings cross the shore. A night of parting, yet day will come. All my life I sit copying sutras, writing poems while watching the fires of the three realms, seeing no-self, awakening to the unborn. Opening the sutra, I hear news of you— the brush slips, ink spills across the page; foam on the waves drifts into the endless, like lightning, like dew. A bitter night, a forest of memories— karma layered through battles of words. You once charged through the world of ink and paper; now you lie still—who will chant for your mind? Be quiet now—listen to your breath; see no-self, seek nothing. Let go of ten thousand words, let go of body and mind. A New Year’s Eve of wandering— a farewell echoing through ancient lives. Turning the heart to thank the Buddha, bathing in the midday sun. Remember the sutra—read again: give thanks to the Dharma, tears of joy. Each line of text a string of pearls, adorning the boundless clarity of mind. A sleepless night, a night of practice— like fire burning upon the head. Eyes awakened, watching the wind rise; the silent mind ends all sorrow. Look, my friend, at the birth and death of mind— what is seen, what is heard. A mind that does not cling is free from karma; one Dharma-Thusness blazing like summer sun. A night realizing life’s illusions— what is seen is impermanent, what is heard is without self; the awakened mind shines like a mirror. Leaving anger, leaving craving— the unmoving mind dissolves the night. Awake, awake, awake— still, still, still— pure, pure, pure, the mind made solemn. A night of ignorance, a forest of the past— the path of liberation, gratitude to the Sangha. The lamp of Dharma, the wordless sutra, scattering clouds, revealing the moonlit way. Open the sutra—do you see dependent arising, without division? The Lanka moon appears upon the page— no this shore, no other shore. A night seeking the Buddhas of the three times— one plucked string, a thousand resonances; one raft of Dharma—precepts, concentration, wisdom— crossing countless distances, ten thousand steps. Open the sutra—let the mind not cling: no yesterday, no tomorrow, no today, no direction— seeing the three realms as the Buddha’s Thusness. The endless night will end; beyond being and non-being, Nirva?a is realized. Who can see the nature within the mirror when all the dust of a thousand years falls away? A mind without self leaves every storm— neither higher nor lower. Joy in the silent island of mind, unshaken in the vast ocean. Remember, my friend, the Buddha taught: all that is heard, seen, or known— body, mind, nose, tongue, eyes, ears— all past, present, future— none is “I,” none is “mine,” none is self, none is other. All dharmas, in their deepest truth, come from nowhere, go nowhere. All dharmas are like the sound of a lute— empty, silent, the Mind of Nirva?a. ---- For poet Nguyen Luong Vy (1952–2021) California, Feb 17, 2021

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