This book does not ask to be understood.
It asks only to be read in the way the sky is read,
or the sea, or a face you love when nothing needs to be said.
The poems that follow are not explanations of the Mahayana.
They are not instructions, doctrines, or beliefs.
They are traces - moments where something larger than the self
belief became visible without being named.
Mahayana does not begin in ideas.
It begins when the boundary between inner and outer
quietly fails to hold.
