Sitting underneath the Bodhi tree
It is just the Bodhisattva and me
And we do not talk, we do not converse
He sings in lyricism and I in verse
How could I be but a passing thread
Playing a tune to call the dead
And are we what they told us then
I lose faith to find it again
To find it on ground that knows the earth
Soil that could never be dirt
Air that is always pure
An angel in a dream demure
And when it is half past ten
I get up and leave the door again
For consciousness is but dreaming prose
And waking, the one I chose