Please

There is enough metaphysics in not thinking about anything.

What do I think of the World? I don't know what I think of the World! If I were ill, I would think about it.

What idea do I have of things? What opinion do I have about causes and effects? What have I meditated on about God and the soul And about the creation of the World?

I don't know. For me, thinking about it is closing my eyes And not thinking. It's drawing the curtains Of my window (but it doesn't have curtains).

The mystery of things? I don't know what mystery is! The only mystery is that there are those who think about mystery. Whoever is in the sun and closes their eyes, Begins not to know what the Sun is And thinking many things full of warmth.

But opens their eyes and sees the Sun, And you can no longer think about anything, Because the light of the Sun is worth more than the thoughts Of all the philosophers and all the poets.

The sunlight doesn't know what it's doing And that's why it doesn't err and is common and good.

Metaphysics? What metaphysics do those trees have? The metaphysics of being green and leafy and having branches And of bearing fruit in their time, which doesn't make us think, We who don't know how to appreciate them.

But what better metaphysics than theirs, Which is not knowing why they live Nor knowing that they don't know?

"Intimate constitution of things"... "Intimate meaning of the Universe"... All that is false, all that means nothing.

It's incredible that you can think of things like that.

It's like thinking about reasons and ends When the beginning of the morning is dawning, and on the sides of the trees A vague, lustrous gold is losing the darkness.

Thinking about the intimate meaning of things Is added, like thinking about health Or taking a glass of water from the fountains.

The only intimate meaning of things Is that they have no intimate meaning at all.

I don't believe in God because I've never seen him.

If he wanted me to believe in him, He would undoubtedly come and speak to me And enter through my door Saying to me, Here I am!

(This may sound ridiculous to the ears Of those who, not knowing what it is to look at things, Do not understand those who speak of them With the way of speaking that observing them teaches.) But if God is the flowers and the trees And the mountains and the sun and the moonlight, Then I believe in him, Then I believe in him all the time, And my life is all a prayer and a mass, And a communion with the eyes and through the ears.

But if God is the trees and the flowers And the mountains and the moonlight and the sun, Why do I call him God?

I call these things flowers and trees and hills and sun and moonlight;

Because, if He made Himself, for me to see Him, Sun and moonlight and flowers and trees and hills, If He appears to me as trees and mountains And moonlight and sun and flowers, It is because He wants me to know Him As trees and hills and flowers and moonlight and sun.

And so I obey Him, (What more do I know of God than God knows of Himself?), I obey Him by living, spontaneously, Like one who opens their eyes and sees, And I call this moonlight and sun and flowers and trees and hills, And I love Him without thinking about Him, And I think of Him by seeing and hearing, And I walk with Him all the time.