Who is the Buddha?
This is the cry
Of young children in the wilderness
Of time
Of old men at the ragged edge
Of time
Of mothers struggling with the warp and woof
Of time.
Who is the Buddha,
And where does he sit
Beneath the Banyan with a Mona Lisa smile
Playing on his lips long before Leonardo?
Who is the Buddha,
And when will he come
To wrestle the angels of antique religions
On pinheads or razors that split the hairshirts
So fashionable for the flesh to mortify?
Who is the Buddha,
And what does he say,
What does he Know about life today and the pale
That lies beyond the utmost bound of human thought?
The Buddha lies within the lotus
That unfolds at the center of self
And embraces with awareness
The All. Ulysses understood.
You are the Buddha.