The muffled barks— craving sleep—
Stir weary eyes on sodden streets.
A desolate man on heavy feet,
With cigarette roll clenched between grey teeth,
Mumbles to himself in the dead of night:
"'Tis three O'clock. I have lost my soul."
Words uttered through mist if truth be told.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

When we observe the waves which course through us—
The inner lives that continue to go on—
Unfolding the scroll of hidden lives
Becomes the distant past.

We feed the bodies of churning water
Which span the breadth of time.
Waters which flow in close proximity
To wandering, wavering lines.

Only then, near the edge of the setting Sun—
Abound with wavering lines—
Will the doors of binding light unlock
And reveal the shores of Shambhala.

The red soil rises in the garden
Upon a wrought and coiling mist,
Then collects the stems of morning light:
Old Future's endless sift.

These mornings when the flood plains swell
Instil great peace of mind;
Tireless are the crossroads of
Transpiring, morning light.

Set down the blade,
Spread far the grain,
Inhale the rice-fed air.
Now rake the water's fervent edge—
Reveal the waves of golden.

The grey lines etch
Her eyes, her mouth and her hips.
A blade makes contact through the fine, stone mist.
Stagnant, sanding down the beating end of a hammer,
Trapped shapes appear,
Revealing new ways to approach
Her eyes, her mouth and her hips.