when you find a dead monk, set him on fire. the flames burn the color of the robes. my color, the robes. orange and red. ascending from marina's Dark Zone i look up and upon the creatures of the deep - softening the horror of their countenance. i see black to blue, orange to red. the Sun is a lynch pin the monks are all on fire. the Sun and Moon are a vector and they are a time piece. when you find a dead monk, brother, set him on fire.
Wanderers in ochre robes Wander across hills and mountains bare foot In their quest for truth Thorns prickling their feet Heat and frost burning their skin They are often ridiculed What makes them so crazy That they find beauty of life out of sync May be they have seen life rife with so much strife That they have nothing to whine Or may be it is their spiritual might Which is difficult to attain otherwise Or may be they tillage the essence of life by pillaging self pride Or may be they polish the unpolished side of life and make bright the dark inside Who verily knows What is right Let them live their lives Let us live our lives