Bitter Memories
The Hunter for PD
Yesterday, I visited
the timeless monastery
where the Buddhist monks dwell,
the place a sublime testament
to their simplicity, perception
and peace.
With delight,
I viewed the fragment of skull
and the skeletal fingers:
repellent to some,
yet exquisite to me, my fascination
with the enigma ravenous.
I listened to the monk’s story,
fantastical, but not filled
with excessive intensification.
He looked into my eyes,
his own moist,
steady but not defiant,
as he recounted the epic tale.
As the minutes ticked by,
I was filled with ecstasy:
this wasn’t a nefarious conman,
his story was not tainted
with planning and motives,
and, as I thanked him for his time,
I believed he really had seen
Meh-Teh, the yeti,
the abominable snowman –
call it what you will -
on a glacier, and, again,
in the snowy valley;
he had heard gunshots ricochet
and had later retrieved
the gruesome relics.
I would never quit searching…
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