Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535567" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Even Pretty Buddhas' - Han Shan of Old Speaks In a Dream</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">How strange is life in old age.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Overwrought by too much thinking<br>all is not yet lost but merely tossed, <br>scrambled in this ramble where etymology<br>is everything. And good boots.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'm to poetry then and books a-sundry, <br>the old scrolls and tints an attempt to<br>keep a horizon, above it, not under but<br>the dip is soon enough. The worms can<br>correct my spelling and punctuation<br>when I go beneath the willow tips slowly<br>teasing the grasses into laughter.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">White hair nearer now to Yellow Spring, <br>my humor with others is still intact.<br>Even alone I manage to laugh out loud, <br>a victory over enemies and frivolous, <br>ill-tempered gods, all my youth wasted<br>given over to their sly manipulations.<br>Useless now to demand these years<br>back but suffice it now to presently <br>live more boldly, blood hot, with fear <br>of no god yet with respect for all men <br>for both good and bad suffer alike. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I am one to fight with gods, not men <br>like me longing to roam without explanation, <br>excuse, without rebuke. After so much divine <br>frivolity I am an emptied out fool, but a wise <br>one, I think. I cry out in the night dream <br>remaindered to Silence. I laugh through tears <br>avenging daylight from hostile heaven's <br>envious thieves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still, a habit now, I shall sit at the<br>Buddhas' feet. Their faces are convincing<br>enough. I shall ignore much evidence to<br>the contrary. Undergarments, even of<br>Buddhas, reveal truth which does not flinch<br>but perhaps may pinch its nose in disgust<br>even of holy stench.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even so, in spite of meditations long, I am<br>flung further into life's fray though I sway<br>with chants up to the 8 Celestial Flights, <br>my steps light. Long in exile dizzy with<br>the Path, human beauty, brokenness there <br>beside, in all fields shy flowers want<br>our windows and stoops to proudly present<br>themselves. This, only now, but happy, do <br>I discover, and I am old, scents upon the <br>wind down the human lanes where even dogs <br>take pleasure from the air, where children <br>play and narrow water flows petal-by-petal<br>away; night, day, the joyous moon swoons <br>in the liquor of splash upon stones happy <br>to be worn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There, almost within reach, the blossoming<br>tree brightens between darker bricks to truly<br>dwell. It is for me, a shy son of mists, to see, <br>in spite of big chunks missing, lost, wasted, <br>torn out. To remake the world as it always<br>is, celestial, not as it appears to most, but <br>hard, spirits without shoes still long to be <br>bread to dwell in our finitude. To them, then, <br>I am still a daffodil gay, and a rusty gate where <br>heaven and hell open at the end of the skin road <br>where vague statues sway out of focus lamenting<br>their stone, no river to move them, or against, <br>unable to move at all, <br>for movement is not nothing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nothing to lose, this rag of selves, with<br>what glory remains of hungry pockets I skip<br>forward singing, 'La La La, ' a willful don, <br>a lord of nothing-much, poems a'pocket, <br>knowing it's all a shell game but I'm clever<br>having learned something from all the rolled<br>dice - there is more to here than there.<br>Wise now, I always bring a change of draws<br>and a broken piece of mirror to gaze within<br>practicing my smiles.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If questioned at the Heavenly Gate I'll blame you, <br>old ghost meandering still, muttering the old hymns, <br>granting me permission the entrance to boldly storm.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Between what these final breaths remain<br>and the horizon, my fingers still work<br>on behalf of all sentient beings; to plead<br>our case I'll write until the quill is taken <br>from my death hand which even then shall be <br>dirty with righteous indigence, only the gods <br>to blame (they love a good argument anyway) . <br>Then, only then, will I become human through <br>and through, be damned and done the mirror and<br>pockets. A man can curse at the end having<br>earned the right to do so, then a wink and <br>a grin rehearsed. Even pretty Buddhas pretending<br>eternity cannot move by themselves alone, <br>in need of human feet and arms. In this way <br>then we become the same as I too will be born <br>by men to the grave no longer able to move <br>on my own.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Warren+Falcon">Warren Falcon</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535567" data-title="Even Pretty Buddhas' - Han Shan of Old Speaks In a Dream de Warren Falcon" data-description="How strange is life in old age.

Overwrought by too much thinking
all is not yet lost but merely tossed, 
scrambled in this ramble where etymology
is everything. And good boots.

I'm to poetry then and books a-sundry, 
the old scrolls and tints an..."></div>
</div>
</div>