>>53by Someone who dreamt he was Ezra Pound
Sing not of stars, but of that which ignites them. The bearer.
Born in the mouth of the ऋच्. Breathing the dawn into being.
The wheel is not turned — it turns. Who rides it? He burns, and does not.
He sits in the core of the log, untouched, untouched.
ऋषयः called, and the void gave flame as its answer.
अग्निः.
No-self. Not a metaphor. Not a riddle. A blade.
What clings is what suffers. What names is what dies.
स्कन्धाः rise like a city in smoke and collapse just the same.
Not hollow. Not gone. Not less. But not yours.
The flame flickers once in the temple, then nothing.
अनात्मन्.
There is no pivot. No change. It was always this way.
The monks drank ink. The scrolls grew teeth.
One word, then none. They sat and they vanished.
A crane cries over water. The cry has no meaning.
空.
道.
The soul is a cry in the throat of a dying Πλειάδες.
What is not named is not. What is not sung was never.
The spear is the answer. The armor the question.
A hero dies once. A coward, uncounted.
ΚΛΕΟΣ.