The door is closed. Behind it are
the congregation of the saints
and as the silence churns, each listens.
From each tower flows dharmata's peace,
the sum of emptiness, the breath of the divine.
From fantasy as this, the lore of hope—
a flood, bare of design, emerging,
feeding its perfection,
bursting as a flower
to share a precious frailty
in its uniting. Now the welkin has its sway;
come rein the horses with me,
for the mystic skies are full of thunder
and the day is ours.
Come quickly. Who will pass?
You are the keeper of the door.