|
|
Writing
|
About MeBURNING ONESELF TO DEATH
That was the best moment of the monk's life. Firm on a pile of firewood With nothing more to say, hear, see, Smoke wrapped him, his folded hands blazed. There was nothing more to do, the end Of everything. He remembered, as a cool breeze Streamed through him, that one is always In the same space, and there is no time. Suddenly a whirling mushroom cloud rose Before his singed eyes, and he was a mass Of flame. Globes, one after another, rolled out, The delighted sparrows flew round like fire balls. Shinkichi Takahashi Comments
|