Oh Bodhi, tree of the Peepul
Your thousand leaves are a thousand eyes, all open.
Those peacock plumes flutter,
whispering eulogies for fire.
I know you know, Grand Rooted One,
that I'm an intensity junkie--
a lover of slings, arrows, and human imperfection.
With all of your eyes, you've surely seen
me laugh to keep from crying.
But, I wonder, Sir Bastion of Leaves (or Eyes)
if you remember what it's like to sleep
and sweetly dream of waking.
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