Daitokuji
The
monks all sit in the main hall
continuing
the temple’s centuries
of
zazen practice, their voices rustling in autumn
as
they chant the ancient sutra
or
ponder the paradox of the koan.
A
maple branch taps at the window
with
the bell’s faint echo.
They
watch time’s every breath
while
walking the narrow corridors,
or
as they chop firewood in the morning,
rake
the courtyard’s white stones,
prepare
charcoal fire to make tea.
Under
the trees, by the tombs of the daimyos
who
had the temple built,
a
stone lamp sits in memory
of
Sen no Rikyū, he who had perfected
the
ceremony of tea
and
willingly slit his abdomen open—
following
the discipline of sepukku—
in
obedience to the wishes
of
the emperor.
His
severed head lies buried
in
the temple gardens
where
the kneeling bamboo rustles incessantly.
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