There is a purple olive
As if there had been purple rain
There is a new branch on the tree
As if youth walks this way again
There is a twist to the trunk
As if the dancers twist their manes
There is a death sign to the floor
As if the old age leaves its stains
There are monks in robes
As if Matins is about to begin
Actually they are guests of the spa
Here to thermally detox their sin
The water falls as water falls
Towards the emptiness of Zen
The breeze dies as breezes die
Before the asking of why, or when
The corner of dry leaves lay quiet
Left alone to find their own peace
The sliding doors open silently
Yet to exit, is no certainty of release
