Dhp IV : Blossoms

Knowing this body

is like foam,

realizing its nature

–a mirage–

cutting out

the blossoms of Mara,

you go where the King of Death

can’t see.

The man immersed in

gathering blossoms,

his heart distracted:

death sweeps him away–

as a great flood,

a village asleep.

As a bee–without harming

the blossom,

its color,

its fragrance–

takes its nectar & flies away:

so should the sage

go through a village.

Focus,

not on the rudenesses of others,

not on what they’ve done

or left undone,

but on what you

have & haven’t done

yourself.

Just like a blossom,

bright colored

but scentless:

a well-spoken word

is fruitless

when not carried out.

Just as from a heap of flowers

many garland strands can be made,

even so

one born & mortal

should do

–with what’s born & is mortal–

many a skillful thing.

No flower’s scent

goes against the wind–

not sandalwood,

jasmine,

tagara.

But the scent of the good

does go against the wind.

The person of integrity

wafts a scent

in every direction.

Those consummate in virtue,

dwelling

in heedfulness,

released

through right knowing:

Mara can’t follow their tracks.

As in a pile of rubbish

cast by the side of a highway

a lotus might grow

clean-smelling

pleasing the heart,

so in the midst of the rubbish-like,

people run-of-the-mill & blind,

there dazzles with discernment

the disciple of the Rightly

Self-Awakened One.