the "crackle of parched skin, and snap of joint," we are uncomfortably reminded of the Sunday joint. Man as meat. As the smoke thins and the ashes sink down, we see what lies within--nothing except for the dazzling whiteness of bones. Is this all we are? Do we laugh? Do we scream? Do we stay to linger or run back into the walled citadel of our illusions?
For Prince Siddhartha, the answer is clear.
from Christopher Nield: The Epoch Times: The Antidote--Classic Poetry for Modern Life: The Antidote: Classic Poetry for Modern Life
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