The fretful Tiger in a rage
prowls the confines of his cage.
Do not feed him. Pass him by.
And, of himself, he’ll surely die.
The Gypsy, with her crystal ball,
promises to tell you all.
Do not cross her palm with gold.
Leave your future woes untold.
The wave that towers above the sea
and rubs its chin against the sky,
subsides where it will ever be.
(Not being born, how can it die?)
Delve into your heart divine
(discarding thoughts of yours and mine).
Permeate the stillness there
and of its Silence be aware.
(Poem from BLONDIN)