sick of it whatever it's called sick of the names
I dedicate every pore to what's here
a well nobody dug filled with no water
ripples and a shapeless weightless man drinks
oh green green willow wonderfully red flower
but I know the colors are not there
the mind is exactly this tree that grass
without thought or feeling both disappear
not two not one either
and the unpainted breeze in the ink painting feels cool
Ikkyu this body isn't yours I say to myself
wherever I am I'm there
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