Sunday, March 15, 2020

The Last Song of the Buddha


I remember a story, but it has changed
like a place 
or a city visited after a long absence.
I remember a song, but it too has changed.

My eyes widen and then blink 

in a dark cavern.
I reach out in the darkness.
The chrysanthemums are cold.

Outside, snow begins to fall.
I cannot wear the death mask 
of another,
I put on my own.




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