The Rice Eaters Poem by Paul Warner

No potato,
no bread,
chopsticks click,
wok fried pieces,
on separate plates,
and rice in eternity.

Perpetuity in motion,
runs like the Mekong,
to the sea.
The estuary spreads,
its fingered claws,
the rice grows,
Then, is harvested.

Year after year,
they play the game,
the rules never change.
Rune stones, dice
and chopsticks click.
Absolution is near, but
Always just out of reach.

Maybe Buddha saw,
Nirvanah had no rice,
And couldn't wait to get there.