I’ve managed to reflect in my isolation, the Sangha in the Dharma Ending Age. The members of the assembly donned in bankers robes and meditate on abacuses and charity, counting the coins and the gold in their treasury. Frequent fliers to nations abroad and in-between, spreading poison instead of poverty, how will the beggars survive? Bowls are given up by the thousands, and these empty, abandoned robes only suggest thousands of naked monks are running free and I have no time to catch and clothe them all. Is it rebellion? I with a steady ear, hear no rally calls. The teacher rings the bell, and the students assemble; the cane is thick and long enough to strike every student with a single swing, but they tore down the temple for firewood and now carry the jewels like thieves in their pockets, protecting them. Is anything ever revealed except a welt? The greatest Dharma exfoliates an ever widening bruise. The jewel cracks in imperfect elements, one expert mentions heat, the other mentions friction. But who is to say for certain unless they themselves apply this method. It wasn’t until this century that the people became worrisome and anxious before their own righteousness. How many atrocities do I commit on the daily,inexcusable by the Dharma I am compelled to. I feel in me the exhaustible need to repent. The student rebels against the institution, not the teacher. This Sangha is hereby disbanded, but the teachings will continue. Burn this and every other sutra next winter; the true lesson has yet to be taught.