Awakened At Midnight By The Sound Of

My Body, Now Close To Fifty Years Of Age, Has Become An Old Tree That Bears Bitter Peaches, A Snail Which Has Lost Its Shell, A Bagworm Separated From Its Bag; It Drifts With The Winds And Clouds That Know No Destination. Morning And Night I Have Eaten Traveler's Fare, And Have Held Out For Alms A Pilgrim's Wallet.

Do Not Resemble Me-never Be Like A Musk Melon Cut In Two Identical Halves.

A Weathered Skeleton In Windy Fields Of Memory, Piercing Like A Knife.

With Every Gust Of Wind, The Butterfly Changes Its Place On The Willow.

The Desire To Break The Silence With Constant Human Noise Is, I Believe, Precisely An Avoidance Of The Sacred Terror Of That Divine Encounter.