Shinkichi Takahashi, "Burning Oneself to Death"

That was the best moment of the monk’s life.

Firm on a pile of firewood

With nothing more to say, hear, see,

Smoke wrapped him, his folded hands blazed.

There was nothing more to do, the end

Of everything. He remembered, as a cool breeze

Streamed through him, that one is always

In the same place, and that there is no time.

Suddenly, a whirling mushroom cloud rose

Before his singed eyes, and he was a mass

Of flame. Globes, one after another, rolled out,

The delighted sparrows flew round like fire balls.

For a sample response to this poem, see the file on our Notes page.