A large cello propped against
his left knee
the monk sits on a spindled
hard back chair.
The holy pretender
draped in monk habit
with the hood pushed back
looks a satiated Buddha
hovering over a pond
in a Japanese garden.
His flowing white beard
whittledof light brown wood
tickles his invisible crotch.
His rotund aged face
has painted sanguine lips
that smile ear to ear.
Beatitude incarnate!
Ah, he must be playing
The Music of the Cosmos
and of the Spheres except
that his cello
has a broken peg box
and no strings.
His right hand is missing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem