And on the 48th Day Awoke the Buddha
He does not know how long this sleep will last.
The milk porridge that the young girl offered
before his descent into dreaming, he
digests slowly, dissembling molecule
by deliberate molecule life’s frail,
unravelling essence. Flesh hesitates,
after 47 days of fast, weakened,
ready to be shorn off in his spirit’s
expedition. Beneath arid fig tree,
the journey swerves between immolation
and indulgence, asceticism and
desire – and even the heart, exhausted,
falters, not knowing what waits just within
sight, just within reach, just within his grasp.