November 29^th, 2017

In all, what does life resemble?
It seems a goose print in the slush of snow.
That changed left footprint will soon be gone,
And the goose flies away it knows not where.
The old monk is dead, his new stupa built
And nowhere to see old poems
On the temple's crumbling walls.
Do you remember the rugged paths,
The weariness of the long road
And the braying of the donkey?