You, in the hill country, out there on the red clay earth,
You, sleeping away in a desolate cave.
You're netither shell nor bone; you're not a thing at all.
Not remotely like and old rusted watch
Awash on the beach with the dried-up seaweed.
Are you Truth projected? Or specter?
You mummified being, how you survive is like a fish of miracle.
At the edge of hardly withstandable desert wasteland,
The sea roars out at high heaven.
An onrush of tidal-wave is there far ways off.
Do your ears tell you this?
O Eternal One. Buddha.