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The Making of a Buddha

How long

has it been there

punctuating the vast meadow

stoically rooted, drinking from the

earth’s breasts?

Cheating death

bending never breaking

the maniac wind, whipping, screaming

fails again, frustrated

leaves. Leaves rustle, settle down

in peace. Night grows a blanket

for Time’s gloved hands

that swaddle the tree

that knows secrets scattered by the wind

where the summer sun goes

and the eternal schemes of the universe.

It counts comets

to kill time

untouched by the laughter

of sweet children

playing in its shade or

by the memories of villages

wiped out

by the thief of life.

So he sits down

with a heart ripped in flush

soul crippled, running

from shadows that are now

ghosts, expectant.

And the tree asks-

Are you the One that will sit in my shade

and enlighten me?

 

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