I walked into another time

and met old decapitated Buddha Man.

His body was rock and his face was gray

but his smile was merciful.

I skipped a stone and jumped a breath

and thought I caught the chanting breeze.

Felt a flicker of the sun lick fluffy clouds,

as terns flitted flightily.

Curved corners of carved granite

inscribed his image delicately.

Can rock and philosophy be anymore immortal

than the virgin forest?

Stoic, resolute—

even on FarEast, root-infested, crumbling boulders.

And the Buddha Man levitates above all this

cross-legged on lotus flowers.

Even headless, he looks mundanely

at the world below.