What hope now in the embracing sleep that
the waking dream may bring the liberation?
What hope for the sickness in the land of
What hope for levity in the downward weight
What hope for war-wounded, for the
witnesses of terror, broken children and a life
spent in lament, and the moments of regret?
What hope for the hate veiled in costumes of
What hope for one to find his light in the
shadow of bloodthirsty gods?
What hope for the seeking born of the sad
sickness, for the smiling madmen scattered
and divided and the one on the altar who
smiles through it all, for the one pierced and
bleeding whom we’ve broken by our vanity,
whose way is twisted in our folly?
What hope for abundance on which the dust
What hope for those lacking to find relief?
What hope for the lovers of simplicity whose
needs are few, and whose dreams are lofty?
What hope for the moment? That our mother
may tear loose and reclaim her concrete
What hope for the kingdom and the waiting
What hope for Sangha—jewel obscured by
the milky vapors of ignorance.
What hope that the scales may fall from our
eyes that we may see the shining ones