The Acolyte
Always he comes here
Humming to the air
Calling and begging
Calling the dead
Who passed long ago
For help! for help!
Hefty he is
Bowing
Kneeling
Behind this monastery
He did cry for the moon.
Dressed
In his white vestment
Tinted in red
Where is he going?
He defied the ancients
Sad is his mother
Sad is his father.
Even the sun sunned madly
And the moon mooned sadly
Weeping for this listless acolyte.
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