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