I sit here with myself
and watch what is passing by.
Every thought brings
along its own colour, either dark or light or something in between.
And every thought
vibrates its own music, either happy or sad or something in between.
I cannot watch their
birth; so are they really born and where and out of what?
And when they appear, a happy world
or a sad world appears or something in between.
And all the thinkable and
all the known seems there,
endlessly performing
in myself.
I cannot watch them
disappear; so are they really there and where exactly do they
go?
Who could really tell?
For they come from where
I am not and they go where I will not be found.