Go sit, you say, in the mountain mists

I’ll find my spirit there


Not me, I’ll take zazen on the run,

take it to the sickly child,

the low down woman on the curb


I smell the smoke of cities burning,

hear guns boom above the valleys

Merchants prosper where beggars bend

The farmer wants for seed


Let hilltops be your luxury

Anger is the fierce and fiery star

I’ll follow into enlightenment


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