An Old Monk

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A bud is plucked before could bloom,
Friendly four corners snore of this room;
What lives when that dies in whom,
Leftover moist ashes of last monsoon.

How whole about the hole that’s hollow inside,
Only absences would reveal who resides;
Death is life to miracles walking beside,
Long back a named shadow committed suicide.

Don’t wanna wear any number anymore,
Again tonight’s slumber got sold to strangers like whore;
Intuitive remaining counts of breath gasp on floor,
There the end is a gateway to celebrating doors.

Our I belongs to no right nor wrongs,
Life is a series of silent songs;
Thoughts bought by desires simply prolongs,
Here hear a one hand clap by an old monk.

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