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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2004-10-02 | [Text in der Originalsprache: english] |
The Monk on the Sidewalk
My glance out of the pane catches sight of his walk, As he slowly makes his way. In days of old and perhaps Rarely today, one may see a monk Gliding, head down, carefully. Now, the image comes to mind, As that memory looks for me. Again I feel the dichotomy Of his life, where pain and aspiration Lived side by side. Where Soul and the stress of A torn psyche did abide. A reminder of the war that Kindled the inner fire. I knew what he meant, It seems for years. How are we different? We are and he isn’t. The past weighs on him And his shoulders lean Into the wind. But if you looked in You would see. Perhaps he was like the quiet Buddha’s Of old that came and went, merely To shake us of precipitating mold. And just as we take notice that Perhaps, something rare has unfolded, He’s gone. Except for the image of the monk On the sidewalk.
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