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384 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1970
She whose strangeness so perplexed me,
I was unable to think her real
Surely now will keep her word,
For wind through the pines joins flutes blowing limpid notes
All along the stream,
Where hands detain the drifting cups:
Moonlit music, pure, across deep ranges
Moonlit music, pure, across deep ranges
Awesome they are, the plunging chasms
Awesome they are, the plunging chasms
[chasms where the Buddhist demons are, in relation to Enlightened ones on the mountain top]
In charnel grounds demon phantoms
Scourge their own bones, weeping, weeping,
Raging at their past lives’ deeds;
In graveyards thankful angel beings
Offer flowers, suffused with gladness
At the bliss of truth attained.
No, good and evil are not two:
Why then feel anger, why rejoice?
All is if this world before our eyes:
Quick rivers stretch away,
Mighty scarps soar sheer.
O terror!
Moon-hidden deeps of mountain gloom
Now yield a shape alien to see!
Are you then the Mountain Crone?
Some time past my words leafed forth
To bear first fruit: a sketch of me
You doubtless recognize.
Do not be afraid!
Come then, though I tremble still,
Through the jet-black veil of darkness,
You, in human form,
Yet crowned with a snarl of snowy weeds:
Whose pupils shine like stars
Whose face in hue
Glows ruddy bright
As any red-daubed demon tile
Glowering from the eaves.