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Buddha watched her walk away
as far as his eye saw
until a mountain got in his way.
He yelled at Sariputra, his assistant,
“Why is the mountain in my way?”
Sariputra hurried to change
the story, erasing the Buddha’s temper,
muttering, “He has to be a saint,
he must be a saint.”
Buddha continued to gaze
his dream of following her forever
with his eyes
still blocked by the mountain.
“What is the Mountain doing there?”
he roared at Sariputra,
who turned his pencil again,
eraser side up, furious tiny bits,
pink rubber, flying away.
Buddha settled himself,
determined to see who might win
the Mountain, or him.
Anger rose in Buddha,
pure, clean and bright.
Buddha pierced with his eyes
the Mountain in its might.
Under wind and weather
it fell to rubble and there
walking away as she had before
the woman Buddha adored.