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When I'm talking balance I'm talking centre,
A place where all can leave and all can enter;
And after much trial and error all one rehearsal,
To feel the in and out breath of the universal.
So much talk about moving weight or being weightless,
But wait, centre is the gate that is actually gateless;
There's no insistence, resistance or intent to flow,
There's only courage and the faith of truly letting go.
For then the gravity, earth energy, doesn't dissipate,
For with you in harmony it just becomes the weightless weight;
And all the energy of heaven brings with it a sense of clarity,
As heaven and earth join as one removing all disparity.
No internal, no external, for that's been transcended,
No superman, no strategic plan, nothings started or ended;
No winning or losing which to some is confusing, it's never ending;
The Tenchi infinity, pure in it's divinty, Aikido, the Art of blending.
If you train with the spirit of loving protection,
You're Aikido takes on brand new direction;
Focus increases and discipline too,
Cos you realize eventually it's not about you.
Self defence is very good for the selfish,
Yet do they know what the truth of the self is?
Searching for power to make them feel safe,
An illusion, a deception, but an alluring place.
True spirit expressed through the spear and the knife,
Through the Jo of the Hara, through the Sword that gives life:
Through the warrior spirit, filled with humble politeness,
Where the selfless self replaces wrongness and rightness.
I ain't a preacher or a monk or a llama
I'm just in tune with the sound of kotodama,
And the spirit of universal loving protection,
It's all around us in all eight directions.
Aikido is an art like a book that's page-less,
Spiritually zen like, modern? no, ageless,
It's Infinite so it has no ceiling,
Forever revealing, restoring and healing.
Some say the techniques were there for the stealing,
But such is ego for it has no true feeling;
For with feeling and dedication you will understand,
Thus the truth passes to you, shared from hand to hand.
For all old Masters were offering, but who could see,
The blind had to steal but what they stole was empty;
When I hear such voices I hear no poetry, it's rhyme-less,
So I return to my centre, moving stillness, timeless.