Beneath the hallucinatory twilight,
Like the landscape of a recurrent dream,
I tie my stray seas
With the threads of equators.
Alone on our wooden worlds
We tame the wave
As if it were the last worshipper of dream.
The last sea.
On the silent unwritten palm,
Like the smell of paper in rest,
We draw lines that we can understand:
The chronicle of a little day
With a beginning, a middle, an end.
Using the razor of reason
We carve the mouth of our questions,
A little wound
Where the unthinkable: the tongue of reality,
Licks our pain.
The streets that rule my city
Crush in sudden midnight on little lunar plazas
Possessed by all my demons.
The Poetry of Buddhism