The summer sun
burns the Buddha’s hair.
And the fingers of darkness
guide the night owls.
Breeding dark nights
after dark nights.
Yet, hidden behind
a garden of willows
no birth, no death.
An untrimable light,
with the power to
fashion this place.
Around the wreaths of darkness,
the flowers, the trees
and the sky unfurl.
And the days will become
long, and reasonable.
The green paths of the new world.
A Wandering Poet 