The image of hole gets into my dream
The night is dark
The entrance is black
In the dim bottom of the hole
a white bed stands
Mist humidly sticks to the bed
Silence mysteriously surrounds the bed
Firewood serves as mattresses
laying flat on the bed
The one lying in bed meditating the difference between the
inside and outside of the hole
is me
The one breathing the air given and wishing to share
is me
The sound of midnight wind enters the window
gently shaking me awake
There is no way to tell if I am
in the room of whirling window shadow
or in the hole with the moon shadow reflecting on the wall
A little boat
is lying quietly in a silent river
Night is being sliced
Hole is a void
Yet, it conceives entity
I walk down along the stairs
in silence
starting to count from the first conscience
to the conscience of Alaya
The seed of thousand years in my chest
grows out a Buddha every day
Then it is almost dawn
Someone with a thick wooden cross
blocks the hole
My heart sinks to the bottom
The firewood catches a fire at once
burning wildly
In the throbbing, the hole
forcefully pushes me out
I crash through the wooden cross
emerging into the world soaked in redness
looking upwards right away
the sun is above the head
rising a symbolic pattern
The hole turns to red from black