What of this lowly life of mine,
These days to challenge,
These nights sublime.
What of this fanciful dance with death,
The pirouettes with danger,
The bold steps on final breaths.
What of the pain that baptizes the soul,
The golden spade,
Which never fills the hole.
What of the freedom we all give away,
To the merchants of time,
Carrying debts unpaid.
What of these merchants,
Truly, what do we owe them?
What did we purchase?
What of the power in a touch of grace,
That milky omnipotence,
Resting slyly in the smile of an innocent face.
Buddha at the Mountaintop
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