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The Chanting Stones
Leona Smith Kremser
This place is called Old Stone Cliff, In the living stone is carved an age-old cave, And herein, in holy silence, sits Jina in image. Wilted marigolds, ashes of lavender incense, So falls into dissolution the bright, rustling day, By now blues and ambers deepen at the lotus seat Where is kneeling the one, the solitary pilgrim, Who begins to hear, oddly, these mites of harmony.
Waking, softly giving voice to a praiseful chant : Homage to Jina, all-knowing Jina,
Knowing of souls in living stones,
Knowing of souls in all living things,
...
Homage to Jina, way-showing Jina,
Showing the way of non-injury to all living things, Showing the way to the highest religion.
Slowly the pilgrim begins to trace the source : From the old stone walls that shelter the image Mites of stones, ones by twos, are tumbling down, And within the silvery privacy of His holy silence, Their humble, moss-grown voices are praising Him. Sweetly, in a flowing unity with all living things, The pilgrim joins voice with the souls in the stones, Together abiding in faith in the Jina of non-injury.
All-embracing, O Jina in image at Old Stone Cliff.
April 8, 1994
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