A poem by Han-Yi Sotāpanna
A brothel again, though not partaking
I recite poetry while friends drink
A scream, blood-curdling and shrill
We run, a corpse to see, it's chest split
Fearing the Egui, I burn it post haste.
The magistrate comes on tall shoes
Guards hit One Upon again
Arson they cry, and bounce us off
Doors not as locked as they seem.
A brothel again, to blood-spattered walls
Secret invites to watch girls dance
Searching and listening for truth
Not There speaks poignantly
A man runs, we tail him.
Papayas, Pineapple, Plums,
Clandestine meetings by fruit boats
The worst spy in history
Then on to the Pearl estate
Dancing women in red.
A false crowd cut from wood
Deep conversations with old women
Cannons beneath their skirts
A red scarf, a dead son
We trade a thing for a thing.
Off on the waters, hurling down cliffs
We crash to the edge of the world
Timur wrestles the tiger of the deep
Two demons row the boat
To the temple of your mom.
Water on marble, slick and cold
A long walk to an new casket
His eye sees far, sees truth, sees me
Red are his horns, bloody his claws
The Buddha protects me.
A box explodes with green eared rage
Not There rends flesh with blades of jade
Claw and horn rain down
Timur cannot resist
Two yama too many.
Three stand where four once did
Two yama lie in ruins
From out the box, a single pearl
The dragon's treasure stolen back
The Bandit King lies dead.