The New Haiku Vol. 2

Tall summer grass

reveals the shape of the breeze;

only the siren of insects.

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Even here among the snow-swept, desolate hinterlands of my consciousness

the itinerant shepherds sing your praises.

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When nothing else is,

at least the rain is true.

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The ego is a traveler

walking barefoot and wide-eyed

through the landscape of consciousness.


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