Glory In The Buddha's Head Poem by Artchil Daug

Sonata of all sonatas, music beyond cores,
melodic nutcracker no sweet almond can win—
none in this universe, to the sands sprinkled
in space, none your flesh, your fruit, just you.

Feel the gathering mind collect its flock;
your soul cries for the eternity of oneness,
and the tears flow, rising and falling, escaping
the light of being your soul illuminates,

the world is arranged by the notes born of chaos,
a halo in and around your imaginary transcendence.
Bow now venerable one, for you are but a speck of dust
in the stars of the night that can outlive your death.