These Chinese monasteries, have they all been discarded, and under all pagoda rooftops, a great mourning. Silence. The dawn reaching to the folding creases of the Buddhas robes. How many are enshrouded? Disperse young ones from this collapsing monolithic structure. My feet have been fleeing since they brushed against such a firmness, no more miles left to venture to. Al these falling stones being thrown become barricades. There are no more possessions left, and I’ve become common property. Squatted houses, holy temples, the bricklayers and the forge hammering out communities of resistance. To exist is to suffer, quotes from the revolutionary Siddhartha. Mighty Buddha. I will set up my garden accordingly. And the bodhisattvas bring down bread from a life sustaining old poverty. With the many mouths, there comes starving. All fed from the trolleys of some capitalist rhetoric, with little to no nutrition to offer them; may you offer us, barking mad hyenas but a morsel from your plate, and we can build a subsistence underneath your dinner table. So that the we may harvest any crumbs that choose to tumble. Glorious stale wisdom followed with satisfied belches.