In the Dzong of my imagination
Lived enlightened Buddha, a calm grandeur
In loneliness of the spirit. He seemed
Yet our worldly, herding the yak of time
On narrow ridges, by the life of death
Surrounded. Sorrow there is in the town,
And the breeze has sting, and mostly the past
Is unclean, like corrupted occultism.
But enormous peace is the foundation
On which are built these mountains.
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