The Sage said,

“Renounce desires and habits, follow your reason, and study what I am going to say in the chapters which follow on the rejection of the attributes; you will then be fully convinced of what we have said; you will be of those who truly conceive the Unity [. . .], not of those who utter it with their lips without thought, like men of whom it has been said, ‘Thou art near in their mouth, and far from their reins’”

Without reference to imagery, colors; without reference to beauty, just texts and traditions, as these are the features of the soul, forever in the past, forever in the future. We take pleasure under the shadow of this grand tree.

Here’s a parable about a blossoming flower:

The Chinese and the Greeks were discussing who could write one word and say everything.

The King said,
“We’ll settle this with a debate. Speak of the Tree”

The Greeks began talking,
But the Chinese wouldn’t say anything.

They left.

The Greeks suggested then that each be given a piece of parchment to work in their artistry; two pieces of parchment they were given. One pen, one inkwell.

The Greeks asked the King for all the compendiums of philosophy and wisdom, all their legends, all their letters, grammars and notes. Every morning they came and took all the books available to mankind, and perused incessantly, wrote incessantly, every time compounding more and more.

The Chinese took no books.
“They are not part of our work”

They went to their table, facing the tree of the rising sun, before the open sky. They just sat there in contemplation.

There is a way that leads from all words to silence. Know that the magnificent variety of the clouds and the weather comes from the total simplicity of the sun and the moon.

The Chinese never begun, never finished.

The King entered the room,
astonished at the empty page.

“Where is the tree?!” He asked.

The Chinese then grabbed the pen and made four strokes.

The Greeks’ figures and images shimmeringly reflected
on the Chinese pictograph.

They lived in it,
even more beautiful, and always changing shape.

The Chinese art is the way of ‘IBRí
They’ve already studied the art of calligraphy.

They make their loving sharper and sharper.

No wantings, no anger.

In that purity they receive and reflect the writings of every moment,

From here, from the stars, from the apophasis of the unseen.

They take them in

Root, body, branch, leaf, flower . . .

With the same Impossible Density

That sees them.

Poem by  David Ramírez
Feb. 23, MMIV
[Based on Mathnawi I, 3462-3485; 3499 and the Guide of the Perplexed]