O dear Shakyamuni Buddha, dear Tathagata, dear Bhagavan,
seeing the truth of your Disenchantment
as solid and eminent as Boudhanath over Kathmandu,
pointing at a regal constellation like
a beggar child who believes it is close,
I have yet to realize this Transcendence:
someone’s lover lies in a stranger’s arms.

O Siddhartha, if you strolled with me now,
I would point out these planets and their moons, these stars,
these galaxies with their myriad worlds, and here the lovers in spring
meditate on the vastness of the sea under a vanishing sunset,
the slightest refreshing breeze that bends sweet little blue wildflowers,
the waxing moon on a sky of elegant brocade over a peaceful farm.

O Siddhartha, I have seen the Truth, the Law, the Masters.
As sand makes its way down an hourglass,
so has your Dharma fallen, grain by grain, into me.
But I ask you, here with me in this glen,
why must I resist one veiled night,
in this ocean of universes studded with passion,
one darkened caress, one moonflower of my own,
before I turn to concrete,
rising high to a golden point in the air,
imperturbable, pure, and realizing?

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