Sorrow is shortening my life, sleepless, I wander to the balcony as night deepens
Moonlight on the pond below, the golden-white scales of sleeping fish glow–
I know the lotus-seed of an enlightened life, but ponder the deaths of so many
Rotting in graves: Jews, queers, gypsies, the demented the insane herded into ovens
The war-torn twisted heart of man pounding like the guns of war, a runaway world-
And what can I say to the One who watches, who unborn before all brooded sound
Knew words before they were poems, life force of unspoken emptiness,
Who set His face a light upon the roiling sea, spoke stars into being?
I could say…
“I know your face like a stranger’s on a train, one I remember from somewhere,
but cannot place.” or “You are a fabrication of death and fear or perhaps
you never were.”– but it would not satisfy.
There must be meaning, so I’m told, more than the Book, there must be love.
He blinked, the world took root, He forgot and birds broke into warning
Singing the first dawn, fire danced in the light-storm-thunder of his third eye
It was an intention he would not regret, He was born into beginning-less time
Leaving a swastika of love leftward turning, The Buddha Gautama.