When in the winter sun,
the voices of autumn perched on the branches
shall sing the sweet suffering of life
I'll walk barefoot from Kapilvastu to Bamiyan,
purchasing paperbacks at every haltage,
'Samsara' and 'Nirvana' smiling at each other.
I'll be the evening breeze that whispers,
to the monks and the worldly men alike,
I'll be the tree that hides the giant scars
on the face of the illustrious one.
I'll write to you one lazy afternoon,
and we'll meet and merge, we'll fly and flow
beyond names and forms.
No comments:
Post a Comment