The earth was the color of the sky; the hills, the green, ripening fields, the trees and the dry, sandy river-bed were the color of the sky; every rock on the hills, the big boulders, were the clouds and they were the rocks.
Heaven was the earth and the earth was heaven.
The setting sun had transformed everything. The sky was blazing fire, bursting in every streak of cloud, in every stone, in every blade of grass, in every grain of sand. The sky was ablaze with green, purple, violet, indigo, with the fury of flame. Over that hill it was a vast sweep of purple and gold; over the southern hills a burning delicate green and fading blues; to the east there was a counter sunset as splendid in cardinal red and burnt ochre, magenta and fading violet. The counter sunset was exploding in splendor as in the west; a few clouds had gathered themselves around the setting sun and they were pure, smokeless fire which would never die. The vastness of this fire and its intensity penetrated everything and entered the earth.
The earth was the heavens and the heavens the earth.
And everything was alive and bursting with color and color was God, not the God of man. The hills became transparent, every rock and boulder was without weight, floating in color and the distant hills were blue, the blue of all the seas and the sky. The fields were intense pink and green, a stretch of immediate attention. And the road that crossed the valley was purple and white, so alive that it was one of the rays that raced across the sky. You were of that light, burning, furious, exploding, without shadow, without root and word. And as the sun went further down, every color became more violent, more intense and you were completely lost, past all recalling. It was an evening that had no memory...
J.Krishnamurti ~ Excerpt from 'Krishnamurti’s Notebook'