does the Dalai Lama grind his teeth at night,
rip his worn Buddhist robes to tatters,
scream at the sky as dawn opens her eyes.
Did Peace seep into their pores from
scented pillowcases, did the everpresent
dust on countless country lanes scrub anger
from their feet, does simple food cleanse
anger from the inside out?
whatever their secret, I need it now.
May the singing of the flute carry
anger away in the wind, let anger
fall from my feet as I run, let me
find peace in the movement of this
pen across this paper.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment