A berry twinged white tea, cold as ice, flowing down the jagged crooks,
Protruding out the face of a wise and knowing stone Buddha,
11 thousand silent, brooding feet high; high on that nature's air,
The air that rushes slowly around my outstretched and reaching arms,
Lifting me into those soft, welcoming, clouds, that accept my voice and weight
And carry my open soul to a cave that holds death, truly, and takes me in.
Breaks my expectations there, releasing me to a soft soil
Under an elm's sap-encrusted and Golden bark.
Breath that air of nature and Oriental Dao-
Feel its detailed currents breeze within your cold and begging soul.
And climb the mountain's top, and don't stop there, says Japhy,
As he runs the height of a mountain, and instills the Aesopian morals
Deep in my heart.
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