The memory of ash in bag is gray and water-borne
Like the Wise One's memory for twenty four years
Against a disciple's memory of twenty four hours.
Hours are but years, with days like  shadows of hills
That come and go , each morning and each evening.

We only flick the ash of our days into the  ash tray
Full of smoked cigarette stubs to mom's annoyance.

We have elephants of ashes , ash-like in thick hides.
All our elephants are ashes,fire smoldering beneath.
Duly caparisoned,they pass in magnificent doorways
With queenly eminences on mounts, haughty in the air.
Easier for them to pass through as so much gray ashes.


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