Let the music back in, let it be loud;
Let it dissolve the thoughts that swim unrelenting,
Thoughts of trails freshly climbed, loose soil knocked by boots of the wandering sage;
Thoughts of barren scree, bearded with ice;
Thoughts of faithless gentlemen ruined by a world of devotees, each livid, maddened by his cause, unthinking in their pursuit;
Of two fatal white holes, dotted with red, two thin fingers apart;
Of the long roaming Bodhisattvas, without titles, without exploitation, without descriptions forced upon them;
Of a silence that scratches
Like the woollen underwear of the monk's habit;
Devotion proved by suffering.
No silk graces my two sore cheeks,
But my ears shall never be empty.