I’m a mantra carried on a beggar’s tongue;
each syllable is an age, an epoch, an aeon
waiting in the dark for the rising of the sun,
for a man or a woman, dressed all in white
like a white god bringing the white milk,
as white as the innocent lamb in spring,
wrapped up in the soft embrace of a tulip’s
pale sheets, asleep, not wanting anything
more, not a color, not a soothing sound,
not a meaning or any kind of tell-tale sign,
not a new age of gleaming white wonders,
but only to exhale, at last to slumber.
Oh White Tara, infinitely patient in the midst of this
infinitely colorful craziness, you smiled and kissed
these beggar’s lips with tender subtle syllables
of white, of true love without condition, until
all that remains is to sleep the milky white sleep
of the lamb of god, to pour out finally into white.
Now the men of harsh means rummage through
what’s left of old Tackeytown, their white hands
smeared and soiled with the remnants of the search,
their very atomic structure echoing the ruined light
of a collapsed star system — Oh Divine White Lady,
please never cease in your strange blessing work!
Kindly grant us the sleep of white lambs, tulip-borne,
grace-fed, yawning, wanting nothing more, of this
we pray, tomorrow and today, Ah Hum!