Dear Zhuangzi, last night I dreamt
we were stargazing on a cloud of Dao.
You were the butterfly. I was the human.
Having woken up I was chased by a red-eyed boar
through woods at night to a moonlit lake.
I made my escape swimming vigorously and found rest
on the opposite shore. Taking time to remember,
a dark cloud of defilement and disturbance
went thundering through my mind, and you,
O Siddhartha, O Bhagavan, appeared to me in radiant form.
We sat there on the sand and watched the sunrise,
not saying anything, and not needing to.
Dear Zhuangzi
