Any spiritual practitioner knows he gave a lot of them, those direct pointers into the heart of the matter. But, today, this one about a seed… Come said the muse, Sing me a song no poet has yet chanted, Sing me the universal. In this broad each of ours, Amid the measureless grossness and the slag, Enclosed and safe within its central heart, Nestles the seed of perfection. By every life a share or more or less, None born but... Read more