Killing the Buddha
I am forever the reverent one.
I am the fire-thief; I am the shaman.
I will go forth for you, darling, and bring back
the wisdom of gods and the voices of mountains,
the silvery stones that lie worn in the rapids,
a breath of the mist from the dizzying edge.
I am the spear that pierces the sun.
I am the hours that stretch into seasons.
I am the holly and I am the oak,
The maiden, the mother, the wizened old crone.
Each moment that made me still smolders within me.
I see their light shining like knives through my skin.
I am the stone that makes love to the sky.
I am the blind man; I am the detective.
I am the seeker, alone in the night.
I peer through the fog with my lanterns like eyes
and I wrestle the words from the grip of the pages.
I am the anarchist; I am the bomb.
I am the scars on the skin of the buffalo.
I am the face in the ice on the pond.
I am the serpent, the great ouroboros.
I am the virgin who died on the altar.
I am the savior who died on the cross.
I am the whore who died in the alley.
I am the ascetic who died in the wilderness.
I am the fire that never will die.