Even Pretty Buddhas' - Han Shan of Old Speaks In a Dream
Even so, in spite of meditations long, I am
flung further into life's fray though I sway
with chants up to the 8 Celestial Flights,
my steps light. Long in exile dizzy with
the Path, human beauty, brokenness there
beside, in all fields shy flowers want
our windows and stoops to proudly present
themselves. This, only now, but happy, do
I discover, and I am old, scents upon the
wind down the human lanes where even dogs
take pleasure from the air, where children
play and narrow water flows petal-by-petal
away; night, day, the joyous moon swoons
in the liquor of splash upon stones happy
to be worn. There, almost within reach, the blossoming
tree brightens between darker bricks to truly
dwell. It is for me, a shy son of mists, to see,
in spite of big chunks missing, lost, wasted,
torn out. To remake the world as it always
is, celestial, not as it appears to most, but
hard, spirits without shoes still long to be
bread to dwell in our finitude. To them, then,
I am still a daffodil gay, and a rusty gate where
heaven and hell open at the end of the skin road
where vague statues sway out of focus lamenting
their stone, no river to move them, or against,
unable to move at all,
for movement is not nothing.