The old sage laid out my life in egg shells and incense.
He told me that I was as much the smoke,
Curling amidst the radio waves,
As I was the fragments of calcium
And memories of a former nest.

The old sage had not touched anybody for years.
He said that he could feel the sorrow
Of one million faces passing by the monastery
Without even looking;
He said that human touch had always failed him.

The old sage asked me to see into the future.
He laughed at my helplessness and then
Pointed to the sea. “See here,” he said
In some beckoning wisdom; “you can see
The waves’ fate, before the conclusion.”