The temple bell rings a cristaline sound
like the mute whisper of the dead.
Clouds of starling swirl in a glow as bright
as the red flame of a baker's oven at dawn.
The sun streams its morning smile
upon the poppy fields.
Thought-worn and at last
person of no interest
I knead chrysanthemums into a silver bowl
to beg for alms in the streets.
Far from the tweedy gathering
of soft-cops and merchants de sommeil.
My senescent heart is now a heart of jade
see-through and pure like crystal rock.
I lay myself out to be stared by the stars
Upon the wings of passing shadows.
The stars, indifferent, sideglance at me
brimming with light my silver bowl.
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