ACROSS the flat and the pastel snow
Two people go . . . . 'And do you remember
When last we wandered this shore?' . . . 'Ah no!
For it is cold-hearted December.'
'Dead, the leaves that like *****'s ears hung on the trees
When last we wandered and squandered joy here;
Now Midas your husband will listen for these
Whispers--these tears for joy's bier.'
And as they walk, they seem tall pagodas;
And all the ropes let down from the cloud
Ring the hard cold bell-buds upon the trees--codas
Of overtones, ecstasies, grown for love's shroud

Carrie walked down to Fell street through the park. He leaned upon his faithful cane which was split, splintered, and water logged from being left out on the back porch in the rain where he sat every night before bed. His free arm swung by his side, his hand spread wide open, letting the sun warm his palm. His other arm was constricted with his muscles tight as his hand gripped the polished wooden ball handle. Carrie's skin seemed to envelop the ball there was so much of it. The cane and Carrie were one whenever they walked together.
He passed the Japanese Tea Gardens. He had been there many times. He remembered the strong taste of the green tea he had been served and how energized he felt after his third cup. He remembered the sturdy wooden table and chair he sat on while over looking the crystal clear koi ponds, the seaweed underneath the water reaching up to the sun for nutrients like the hands of the long dead. He remembered how the children had gathered near the water as mothers watched them feed the fish food they were not to be fed, anxiety cramping their smooth skin as they watched to make sure they didn't slip in. The waitresses were all so gentle, so quiet, caring for whatever Carrie had wanted. In that solitary moment, he had felt like a newly appointed king, the 5 acres of garden his domain.
The gates were closed for the day, with many frowning tourists sitting on the steps that lead inside. Carrie figured they had been confused by the times but yearned to tell them if they stood on the street, they could still see the ancient replicas the blood red pagodas, stone lanterns, bamboo stalks, and cherry blossom trees which were just beginning to bloom. There was so much one could see from the street. But, Carrie trudged past them, figuring they would not understand an old man trying to show them beauty from afar.
A long line of benches stood before Carrie after he passed the garden. He sat down next to a young, Chinese couple. They both held a map and were looking at it upside down and sideways. Carried smiled. They were speaking rapidly, laughing sporadically, turning the map around and around in a circle as if they were both at the helm of a sinking ship. He wondered what they were so confused about - had they never read a map before? But then, he realized, they were probably on vacation and in love, maybe even on their honeymoon. He laughed, thinking, They're confused about everything.
A few minutes passed and soon the young couple was gone. Carrie sat with the cane between his legs, both of his hands drooped over the handle. In front of him, like a painting, were London plane and Scotch elm trees lined up in symmetrical rows and the Rideout Fountain. Carrie could see the water was still except for when a light breeze brushed over the water or a child threw a hand full of coins in to make a wish. Their hair reflected the bright rays of the sun. The sky was empty, save a few scattered flying birds going to where Carrie knew not where.
He closed his eyes and listened only to the sounds around him: tires rolling along the smooth concrete road; people chattering behind and in front of him; a door closing; the rustling of leaves from a sharp gust of wind; a car horn; a sneeze; two lovers embracing, their kisses sounding like the steps of kitten paws in the sand. Carrie opened his eyes and cast his gaze aside to the left. There was another old man. His back was bent, his cane was worn, and his legs wobbled with every step, much like Carrie's. The man was alone and dressed in a heavy grey sweater, a pair of beige trousers, and simple brown shoes. Carrie wondered where this man was going and at such slow pace. Why was he alone? Who had he been with before? Where was he coming from?
Carrie then realized he was leaning so far forward from the bench, he almost fell off. He ****** his cane out, catching himself, and pushed himself back. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed his mistake. Twenty or so asian people were crowded like sardines inside of the bus stop terminal. They all looked to be avoiding the sun, uninterested in whatever Carrie looked to be doing. The 44 roared by, stopped in front of the crowd, where they all laughed, giggled, and preceded to jumble in. Carrie looked over his shoulder, sure someone was right there keen to make a comment, but there was no one. He sighed, relieved. Being old and falling down with no way to get yourself back up was one of Carrie's biggest fears. The other, of course, was spiders.
Once Carrie reorientated himself, he looked up to see where the other old man was. He was gone. Carrie stood up, his knees shaking slightly. He jammed his cane down to steady himself and took a step forward. His eyes strained from the sun, which was beating down on him now, hotter than it was before. He took a slow step forward, then another, and then another. Once he got in the rhythm, his mind didn't have to focus on it as much. He could let it wander to wherever it wanted to. Sometimes, he let it wander to death, sometimes to past lovers, and sometimes to his late wife, Patty, but never very long on her.
He stopped to catch his breath and wipe his brown. Next to him stood a dark lime green statue of a lion. It was miniature and sun stained. The teeth were dull and the eyes were blank. It was very beautiful and Henry realized he had never seen a lion in the wild, only at the zoo. He wondered if they were any different out in Africa or wherever they were the most and if they roared the same. The one's he had seen at the zoo were sluggish and lazy; almost depressed. He could see why, being cooped in there all day long with only your wife to talk to.
"That wouldn't be so bad," thought Carrie, "To be trapped in a cage with the one you love. That's marriage, isn't it? Isn't that love?"
A cough startled him out of his meandering, love provoked thought. Sitting on a bench across the street where the apple cider press statue stood, was the old man Carrie had seen before. He was hunched over, fishing something out of his bag. Carrie wavered back and forth, watching the old man. A noise rustled behind him and Carrie slowly turned his head to see what it was. Two children were running around the fountain, splashing water at one another.
"Nothing to speak of," grumbled Carrie, "Wasting water all the same."
Carrie turned back around and saw that the man had pulled out a shiny, red and green apple. The man bit into it slowly, taking his time as he broke the outer skin of the apple so the juices spurt into his mouth. Carrie's stomach rumbled when a hard gust of wind hit his back, forcing him to step forward. He put out his cane and felt the peg slide and grind over the rough concrete. A man behind him reached out to help, but Carrie waved him away, mumbling that he was fine and that he didn't need any help. The man on the bench hadn't paid him any notice. The apple in front of him was all he needed. Carrie walked to the other side of  apple cider statue opposite the man and sat down roughly, for the man looked up from his apple a little wide eyed and a little annoyed. Carrie smiled awkwardly at him, but it came out more like a frown. The man relaxed his face, slowly letting it become blank while a line of apple juice rolled down over his lip. He licked it up, coughed, and went back to studying the intricacies of the half-eaten apple.
The mans face, Carrie saw, was *** marked and dented, like a car that had just been through the worst of accidents. His eyes were barely visible behind what seemed like hundreds and hundreds of creases, wrinkles, chicken's feet. The man's bulbous nose was an obvious sign that he was or had been a serious drinker. It was swollen and red, drooping from the mans face like a glob of honey that just wouldn't fall. The lips were creases of an old pair of jeans that had been left out in the sun. Though Carrie couldn't see his hair because the man wore a large, dapper styled hat on his head, he wouldn't doubt there wasn't much of anything under there. The old man was anything but beautiful, but Carrie, who had been staring at the man out of the corners of his eyes while pretending to look at the apple cider statue, could not look away. He was utterly fascinated with how the man held himself. Why was he so ****** interested that apple? Had he never seen one before? Carrie then thought the man was homeless, so he must be crazy, but when he had walked over before, Carrie hadn't smelled the usual musty musk that homeless people give off. He had smelled like nothing, usually meaning he slept in a bed and showered regularly. Then, in the midst of Carrie staring at the man's unbelievably shiny brown loafer, he said something.
"What you looking at there?" asked the man. He was hiding his ragged face behind the apple. A few pieces fell to the ground below. Carrie could see the bite marks were mere nibbles, like a rabbit had been eating it.
"Hm...I...uh," stammered Carrie. He looked up into the sky, trying to spot a bird to hide where his gaze truly had been, then looked down at the ground. There was a tiny pebble that resembled a hermit crab. He focused on that until the man asked the same question again.
"Were you staring at me, my friend?"
My friend, Carrie thought, He thinks I'm his friend? How on Earth did we get to there? I barely know him. I'll say something. He paused. Well, say something!
"I was staring at your apple there," Carrie mumbled, "It's a very nice looking apple."
"It's very tasty," he nodded, looking back it, admiring the colors of the skin that had yet to be bitten in. "Would you like some?" He stretched the half-eaten apple out to Carrie.
"Oh," Carrie laughed, startled, "I'm fine. Quite full." He patted his stomach.
"Are you sure? It's almost dinner time."
Carrie looked the man up and down, then smiled, "I'm fine. I ate just earlier."
"Oh really, where did you eat?" The man inched forward on the bench and rested his eyes on Carrie, waiting for an answer. Carrie's lip quivered with the thought of having to come up with a quick lie. The man had placed the apple back in his bag and was completely focused on Carrie's lie.
"Well, you see, there's a great place up past Lincoln Way toward the beach. I go there all..."
"Lincoln Way!" exclaimed the man, "You can make it all the way up there!"
Carrie was flattered. He could walk far past Lincoln way and up any of the side streets, if he had the energy, but had never been congratulated for the fact. Carrie shifted back and forth in his seat, blushing for being thought of so highly.
"With this cane," Carrie said, tapping the ground with the end, "I can go almost anywhere."
"Wow. Where'd you get it?"
"My son gave it to me when I first started showing signs of getting old," said Carrie, "It was kind of like a joke at first, but then, I really needed to start using it, and I've been attached to it ever since."
"That's nice," the man nodded, "I bought mine for 50 cents down at Salvation Army. You know the one on 3rd?"
Carrie said that he did.
"Spent 50 cents on this thing four years ago and it has taken quite a beating, but still, it works and looks fine as you can see."
"Doesn't look so bad."
"Well thank you, I appreciate that."
The two of them paused, looked each other up and down, then found something other than themselves to look at. Carrie noticed the soft lines of the man in the statue twisting the cider press and how his muscles were as detailed as a real man's. He had never seen so much physicality in a statue before. It really looked like this man was pressing apples in front of his eyes. Carrie was at a loss at how one captured that feeling of true action in stillness. He looked up to where the statues face was and saw that the eyes were cast down to where the press was tightening. He thought maybe the man was thinking if he stared to where he was working, he would twist harder. The statues hair was soft and smooth in the sun. Carrie followed the statues legs down, past the flat stomach and taught ab muscles, to the feet which were pressed into a large stone so to get more leverage. The veins on the feet were almost pulsating with blood and strength. They seemed to rise and fall with what Carrie imagined would be the mans heartbeat, if he had one. He didn't quiet understand why the man was had to be naked, but figured it was for the sake of art. Carrie was not an artist, but with the free time that was allowed to him by growing old, he was starting to appreciate what he saw, feel it a little more often, then when he had no time at all when he was young and busy. He wasn't sure which he enjoyed better: being old and feeling more or being young and always with something to do.
The man had let his eyes wander from Carrie, to the small statue of a boy. His mouth was pressed up to the spicket where the apple juice was being pressed from above. He imagined the statue of the man above the boy was his father or at least he wished that it was. The boys skin was very smooth and reflected the sun softly up back into the mans face. He looked closer at the face of the boy and saw that it was a silent kind of contentment. The man took out the apple from his bag, took a bite, and offered it again to Carrie.
"Take a bite," he persisted, "Sitting in front of this statue, looking at this little boy drink up that apple juice has to be getting you thirsty."
"I'm really fine," said Carrie, smiling uneasily.
"Come on. You don't gotta' worry about me."
Carrie paused, really thought what he was so scared about, and then admitted that was only uncomfortable because of this stranger's hospitality. He hadn't obliged a kind gesture in a long time.
"Alright," he said, "I'll have a bite."
"There you go!" The man handed the apple over to Carrie.
He took a bite and let the cool juices jump into his mouth. A small dribble ran down his cheek, where he quickly wiped it away with his sleeve. He didn't want to look like a slob, much like the man had looked when he first began eating it. Carrie looked down at the apple, nodded, and handed it back to the man.
"It's," he started, still chewing, "Very good. Thank you...I'm sorry, I don't know your name."
"Symon," he said, taking a bite of the apple, which was almost gone, "Symon with a Y."
"Thank you Symon."
"You're welcome..." he paused, "I never did get yours."
"Oh," he laughed, "I'm sorry. I'm Carrie."
They both reached forward and shook hands. Carrie hadn't sat with another man and talked with them since he'd buried Patty. After that, it had grown hard to shake hands with anybody he knew. Maybe it's easier with him because he's a stranger? Carrie thought, Maybe I should meet more strangers? Probably go and get yourself killed. That's a funny thought. I never thought I'd go by getting murdered. I always figured I'd let time take me, rather than the hands of another. He doesn't look like a killer anyway. He's got to be older than me. He's definitely slower. Look at his hand shaking. Your hand doesn't shake. Does it? Carrie looked down at his right hand which was resting on the handle of his cane. Solid as a rock, Carrie mumbled to himself, As a rock.
"What was that?" Symon blurted, eyeing Carrie, "Where'd you go?"
"Just thinking."
"Bout' what?"
"Whether my hand was shaking or not."
"My hands shakes all the ****** time. It's like one of those kitchen timers or chattering teeth you twist, it goes for a while, and then eventually goes off, but me, never. No, never this hand never stops shaking. Got a ******* mind of its own."
Symon raised his right hand so Carrie could see. Sure enough, it was shaking like a leaf in a tree ready to fall off. The shake wasn't violent, but definitely noticeable next to a hand that was still. It was more a buzz than anything else. Carrie couldn't imagine Symon writing his name down and coming out eligible.
"How do you write your name? Does it get all messed up?" Symon looked at him, then looked away. Carrie froze, realizing he may have just asked a very touchy subject.
"Huh?" Symon asked, looking back. "I got something in my eye real quick. I didn't even hear what you said."
"Oh," Carrie stammered, "What I said was..." Symon cut him off.
"I'm just joshing yah!" Symon shouted, "Course I can write my name! Whenever I put pen or pencil to paper, the shake usually calms down. Don't know why, but it does. I never ask que

In the shadow of Everest people are dying
Crushed in a chaos embirthed from beneath,
Emerged as destructor of temple and Taos,
Emerged as an innocent killer... bequeathed.
History crumbles as heavens roar mightily
Ghorka is dead in an avalanche of rock,
Beggars and potentates crushed  in the brickfall
Dharahara’s fall leaves men gaping in shock.
Shuddering mountains in avalanche of free fall
Wails of the stricken as quaking defiles,
Gold topped pagodas and statue of ancients,
Sculpture of lions now a rubble in piles.
Khathmandu in the clasp of calamity
Nightmarish forces arisen from deep,
Grasping the earth in their grip of profanity
Monstrously tearing the bedrock from sleep.
A techtonic ****** of Asia by India
Nepal’s Himalayas ****** to the sky,
Inconsequential, this plight of humanity
Nature proceeds as poor Nepalese die.**

M.
ANZAC Day 25 April 2015

Bells of gray crystal
Break on each bough--
The swans' breath will mist all
The cold airs now.
Like tall pagodas
Two people go,
Trail their long codas
Of talk through the snow.
Lonely are these
And lonely and I ....
The clouds, gray Chinese geese
Sleek through the sky.

Bells of gray crystal
Break on each bough--
The swans' breath will mist all
The cold airs now.
Like tall pagodas
Two people go,
Trail their long codas
Of talk through the snow.
Lonely are these
And lonely and I ....
The clouds, gray Chinese geese
Sleek through the sky.

Goodnight anthropocentrism—
Mitochondria swim in your stardust
But Contraverse awakens on the
Frontiers of the Valerian Kingdom

At the gnarled staff of the Oil Sage
Taking root between the Earth’s furrows
Springing forth fountains of sweetest Nard
The Jewel of Jatamansi emerges glistening green

In it the eye of the beholder finds the
Seeds of a once forbidden dream
Germinating in the juices of this Gem

Out of it the silent roar of a thousand fields pressing
Aromatic oceans through bursting buds
Of Lavender pagodas rapturously trumpeting forth
Framed by stacks of soft sweet musky Sage
Broad and leathery like elephant’s ears
Curtained with a soft cascade of Orange blossom snow
The sweet kiss of Neroli on your brow

Imbibing the senses with paralyzing pungency
Tangling tendrils to heartstrings
And pulling us beneath Rosewater pools
Floating breathlessly ensconced in a dream
Primordial songs whispering wordlessly,
“Wake whenever you’re ready . . .”

It starts with a girl hunting in the storm.

The sky pours a torrential flood.
The air cackles with the smell of ozone.
Spirits dance and curse over distant pagodas
on rows of lone mountain peaks, scales of a great dragon.
She follows the cold flashes of light,
Until she is only shadow.

(In the distance, a woman’s voice wails)

It starts with a girl,
Arrow notched, string taunt,
Hands steady, and water on her hair, her face, her lips,
On the callouses of her fingertips.
She meets the glowing ember eyes-
Thunder booms,
A tail, a grin, splits in two,
A whistle and a deafening thud.

It starts with a girl,
Who lets a fox live.

Like a small bird
gathering bright objects for her nest,
I am gathering life.

Hands which reached out to me lead me on,
so I left at their bidding
for an ocean in the East.

Traveling through the night
as if lost in a waking dream,
I came at last to her proximity
and slept in an unknown room.

In the morning light,
beyond the highways,
I suddenly saw her, all April morning
blue and still.
Ocean water bathed my feet,
rinsed the crystal beads and pearls
I had worn to greet her.

Deep in the woods now, I see temples everywhere.
In the woodland light, some churches are.
Pagodas of bark and moss in the filtered light,
Ice caverns blue and still begin to melt
beside the waterfall that thunders down,
breathing mist in our faces, garlanding itself
in rainbow light.

In the small city airport
I am folded into the arms of my mother-of-pearl.
Salt water flows easily from my eyes -
like the sweet nectar filling my mouth.
"E facile per le farfalle di volare, sai."

I walk out into the grey-wet airfield,
screaming sounds of engines.
Walking forward, I close my eyes,
and the world is only light.

Now, I have come back to you,
with marzipan, and peacock feathers,
and stories of my adventures.

The light blazes, and the stars
send down their song.

The Universe is singing.

The first snow
is falling in Borimsa,
a quiet temple
at the foot of Gaji Mountain,
as we stand near the two stone pagodas
that silently standing side by side.
"Oh, the first snow!
And I'm here with you...," you said.  
I smile.
Because I remember all you've said about the Korean saying...

The first snow
is falling in Borimsa,
as the true love starts blooming
in two hearts.  

Inside the temple,
the Buddha's statue
is waiting for two hearts
to pray in quiet words,
and send the love song
through the gentle wind
to the eternity.

-Kanya Puspokusumo-
http://doeniadevi.wordpress.com

1. Borimsa, one of the oldest Korean temples on Gaji mountain in Jangheung-gun, Jeollanam-do, South Korea (about 300 km from Seoul). The temple holds great significance as the first Zen buddhist temple during unified silla, built in the 9th century.

2. In Korea, there is a saying that if you are out in the first falling snow of the year with someone you like, then true love will blossom between you.

A wraparound escalier
Rosette's to wrap ourn Dud's
Rebels to society
Low and high class thugs

Epicurean phenomenon!!!!

A Cosmo's to macroism's
Plasma to holy force
Phatom's of ourn own opera
As yen to take its course

Homage to ourn own castle!!!


Excretion to bare ourn name
Wild gluttons
Barbarian untamed
Spelling eachother's name

In hieroglyphic memorandum!!!

We shalt travel beyond old Egypt
We shalt gun the pagodas
We shalt peep the shrines of gosha

As in giants we shalt become!!!


A convent well maketh many babies
Basilica's of the angels
Seraph's of treaties

Shalt we sign ourn admiration in blood?

Tis
Yes
Tis
Love!!!

Kirks to keep ourn reme
mberance
Friary's to be attentive
As the mutuality

Shalt be sweet mine aimer!!!!

No distance shalt be to far
No rancor to blow ourn hearts
No hot mustard to stain out tarts

As Madrid shalt wrap us between acacia posie's!!!!

electrifyingly and smilingly,
I walk through the red mornings
that bring the rainy afternoons

with the smell of onions, lime
and fresh cilantro on my
malodorous breath
that will tell you so:

there are three things
we do exceptionally well:

a) the ****** expressions
we make have become an
almost artificiality, a dour,
featureless, sun-drenched
look that has pockmarked
and disfigured upon our faces.

b) living has become such a dynasty
for boredom that we find television
and fake reality to be satiated
and thrillful.

c) death before burial has become
so fashionable that we wear it like
he latest trend in the upcoming
fall catalog.

but there is nothing there,
decades are annihilated by dreams
and sleep is the cheapest form of
entertainment we have.

knowledge and wisdom
perforated through a
trepanned skull
needn’t be obtained by
an educational system

but through self-taught
and self-introspection

success is merely luck…
being at the right place,
at the right time,
knowing the right people

and we strive to be there

but devastatingly,
the small space gets
besieged
invaded
capsized
by subtleties
of distractions
and irritations

that what we have
either,
inside of us
or
in front of us
becomes insatiable

and the flimsiness of anxiety
begins to lionize and ascend
into higher sopranos

what’s good won’t last
what’s bad always felt so good
and what was said to be good
that was actually bad
was never forgivable

questions are unanswerable
books are unreadable
resources are unusable
happiness is unobtainable
love is irretrievable
and animosity comes so often
like a teenage boy’s *******

as the raindrops pelt the rooftops
like pachinko machines
as the grey hair sprouts like begonias
of spiraling hypnotism
as the pagodas burn in
sacred libations.

if this poem has reached you
it is because you are seeking
better writing than your own.

Life is so beautiful
Last night I had a dream I died
I have never been afraid of death
But when I awoke...
Death is not to be feared, I thought
For it is the only constant,
The only guarantee
But upon my blue eyes squinting open...
I glance and peer at this magnificent dimension
Immediately overtaken with joyous energy
For the Earth has blessed me this day!
Priveleged to be here, now,
Smelling the sweet air of blossoming Pagodas.
Peering through the looking glass of my soul,
I unveil a kaleidoscope of colors and emotions.
For the Heavens have blessed me this day!
Rememberance of everyone before me,
I live today for you,
I will take your place,
Replenish Gaia,
For we are her children,
Oh, how I love you blessed life,
And I shan't ne'er take you for granted.

I

****** fire
   Scattered with
salt of sacred youth
  
   Split & dislocation, your empire light
          (A memory/reproached by vines)

          Replaced by hills of small cosmic stones
formed like a scream in the sand

  Pagodas wrinkle beneath
The sunset's ardent temper
                   (nobody can escape the smoke)

Mothers give up their daughters

Heroes are marked by volcanic glaciers

Anthills are suffocated softly and without sound

Death has taken up other hobbies

Cheeks resemble the shade of a dream

I am greeted by your wolf of absence
it's hairs are thick and knotted

whimpering
(a shadow)
of what it once was

The toothroot maw of distant islands
tremble as a foreign vessel
curves around the bend of florid pine

Sails be blessed
              & branded with
                     symbols of balance
                    
Islands echoing polyrythm

    (Small stone houses, ritualistic, romanced by careful horns)

The old are tempted by decorative
horses crafted of leaves which dance and
enliven
                 the warming sea
                
Ladies dressed in Batik patterns
     carve quietly at shopsigns to capture their stale glow
    
I realize now the black underbelly of May

I see
Performances of it's ancient verse in all
who bear children

     All who practice with the weapons of abuse
          & the perfumes of mortal love

In thought
and acknowledgment

(Accompanied by tenderness & pull of lavender in a basket)

II

I have been taught to no longer fear alive

(alive) at the will of taxicabs

Of eyes which haunt the heart/

   (tears)
            
  The strangeness of
  mental carousels/
              
Rapid entanglement/
          
(death)
  
          Palaces conjured by the Sun/
          
Basement conversation/

Iron candy that worships your body/

/////

An ever present sound of black
        
           The black of love &

  nightfall in yearning

Where the Northern sky
dies with adoration,
swallowed by an
orchard's olive skin

       (A wine for exchanging poetry)

& like a static Summer unrehearsed with cathedral orchestrals

Or willow's wind flowing in through my bedroom

I will miss the black animal's fur,
of the silk you covered me with
in my sleep

(midnight shelter)

III

Lamenting with another woman
for another time
devoted yet fractured

A landscape scar
for Springs Bengal hunger

paused
on a door as wide as the mirrored
cavern where promises were forged &
betrayed,

what happened to the Tsunami which drowned your past?

IV

On the truth of time gone by
I wake with the burden of
every season
& you remain even still

You are the day's end

What do you do when you’re alone
Feel the necessity to indulge in something
A drink or a cigarette
Always blowing away the ****** in swirly smoke
Or downing your business deals in ****
Maybe if it’s your birthday
You’re still alone
Probably because you’re a businessman
You may occasionally take hashish trip
And imagine yourself on a minaret
There are plenty
You could choose the one of the three Pagodas
That resemble the Taipei 101
Or the CN Tower
If you’re looking for something modern
But after your escapade of solitude you need a routine for your return

Huayen Sutra
1000 years pass
Like a single night

        Ravens.

An Era of sacred self-knowledge is here, restoring its pagodas of wicked and divine humanity' unspoken virtue, within the illusions of mortals, It suffers lives of conscious' dreaming its immortal.  
~

During the first six months of 1967, while McCain was part of an attack squadron of A-4 Skyhawks on the carrier Oriskany in the South China Sea, North Vietnamese officials said some 167 schools were bombed, along with 230 churches, three seminaries, and 23 pagodas. In late September—just a month before McCain’s crash on his 23rd bombing run—U.S. planes managed to drop four massive container bombs (2,400 pellet bombs apiece) on a grade school in Thanh Hoa province, south of Hanoi. The school had just reopened after the summer recess and, according to Vietnamese reports, the attack killed 33 pupils, ages 8 to 12. Thirty more were wounded, including two teachers. That was a single incident. The American estimate is that the 1965-68 bombing campaign killed between 52,000 and 182,000 civilians; the Vietnamese claim the figure was several times higher.

This back-stage world is not for me.
why spend in shade the fleeting hours..
While out there lies a sunlit stage.
where I can roam among the flowers?
So in the morning when I view.
the cold and leaden light of day..
My mind departs this drizzling isle..
and takes the road to Mandalay.
Now in the dawn the city looks,
with all the silver mist that shrouds..
The gold pagodas and the trees,
as if it floats among the clouds..
While fairy bluebirds fly about.
I feast on spiky dragon fruit.
And smell sweet frangipani trees.
that line the dusty, winding route.
Once ivory men in palanquins
were ferried round upon this street.
While natives toiled in paddy fields.
and sweated in the summer heat.
Those far off days when Englishmen.
would go out in the midday sun.
And wander 'round exploring jungles
with a handglass and a gun.
And though upon the Empire now.
the sun has well and truly set.
Those times I spent in Mandalay.
are ones that I cannot forget.
I still recall the stifling air
that in the day hung thick as musk.
And how the temples on the hill
would shimmer in the purple dusk!
And when I lie and dream at night
the temple bells they seem to say.
"Come you back you, British soldier
Come you back to Mandalay.