The monk sleeps or leaves the cell,
At last. What is there to do?
How does it save one to sit
And not to do one thing else
But to breathe and chant or pray?
Is it not a sin to wait
Just for the end, in the end?
The door to the cell swings wide.
The gate to the world hangs mute.
Think on death, a verse, a psalm.
Think of a nut no thought cracks.
What was it you came here for?
What you did you want to lose?
You dream of wild boars all night.
You fight not to doze at noon.
Heat like this will kill the mind
While the chest still pumps thick blood.
By day, the sky is a bone,
A shell you can’t reach to chip,
But if you last to the night,
Its stars will douse you in ice,
And the sounds of those wild boars,
The stench of their teeth and tusks,
Will tell you you’ve slept too much.
