I went back to the site of my own desecration
and I returned, what little, I had found.
I saw some unadorned crosses, and violence, and temptation;
and some molested rocks, amidst the crowd.
What I didn’t see was warmth and affection;
what I couldn’t buy was peace, one hundred times untold;
I thought of the truth of the meadows and its flowers;
I said a blessing for some griefs foretold.
I felt sorry for my death, and my casual sense of disrepair;
for my angst, and the ruinous grooves on my brow;
I absolved the past of its shards and I gathered,
some milk and some bread for my sow.
I maintained a dignified sense of elation,
that I was just a visitor to this here, my previous cell.
I returned all the shit that had waited to flower;
and I knew then, that all would be well.
From "Buddha's Broken Fingernail," by Daniel Viragh.