Wednesday, October 15, 2008

More Zen Poems

How I wish to kill!
How I wish
Not to kill!
The thief I have caught
Is my own son.

There is no one
Who dyes them,
But of themselves
The willow is green,
The flowers red.

Were I a king, pensively
Would I pace the corridors of the palace.
The path I walk goes through the pine-trees;
The sea is blue, a butterfly flits by.

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