Who was the illiterate one,
And why did he come to my door?
Begging bowl scraped clean by a hungry tongue …
White, ordinary rice had filled it,
Without too much flavor,
But it had made his stomach warm …
Out of my being there arose
A white light, like the rice,
Growing inconspicuously, …
And I harvested it,
Cut it, threshed it,
Dried it, cooked it …
Behold, the music of my life
Is sweeter than a rice-grain,
Made into food for strangers …
For though I wander and cry,
Making my own journey into the beggar’s daily burden,
I do not starve …
The turquoise bowl
Of my soul
Awaits the Sun
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