Horvitz Bardo

Naropa fought the great pandits of his day in dialectic debate, before a divine hag showed up, ugly and mad, literate only in the language of that skylike reality beyond philosophy. When she questioned all this garrulous intellect, he finally entered stupefaction, a state without hope, without home. Yet I'm still wedded to a wellspring of words, tethered to tomes of learning, and might only know renunciation when my breath rattles without elocution, my hands shake, incapable of mudra then.

Yester   night  I dreamt a long bright sword  Surrendered to King Richard, whose return  Is herald to a Lionhearted Age, From our dimension hidden, beyond scale And scope of time's constraint upon our life. Here dream is not mere dream and all grows young; Arrival and departure are the same. I recognized the red hair of that King As though encoded in another brain, Wherein the memory of events long past Become the moving picture meant to be. That fleeting frame is precious to the mind That cannot capture or replay the scene Like water lost into eternal stream.

Homage to Longchenpa's rainbow body; An image you will know at very last, His work still active as a hologram, That shape mandala takes inexorably.   When myriad lifetimes leave without a trace, (A flash of lightning in a summer cloud) Embrace Samantabhadra's  basic   space ,  The first and final consort to be had. Take  tukdam  when your body fades away; Apart from clear light, hair and nails remain. Do not fear the translucent shade of gray Wherein all colors mix and are the same. In the end there isn't anything attained; Set flight like garuda birds, holy cranes.