He said the tiger was his teacher, and
he walked on trails where stripe-heavy legs scourge
the past from shadows. On the dust-mingled bones
of future, he has sat and watched for urge
to urge him with an emerald eye. Blood
must drop before a blade but mind can stand
above the sharpest fang. Each growl and groan
grows soft beside the roar of Dharma. That his hood,
his chains weren’t roughly cinched by tigers or
by Devas clad in claw and tail is not
important. All that matters is the spot
between the “Bud” and “dho” where he is more
than flesh or word or any uncompounded
emptiness,upon which faiths are found and founded.