Tangled Hair
At the note of a flute
He paused a moment
In his copying of the Lotus Sûtra
And knitted his brow.
Oh, that youthful brow!
You, sir, who preach the Way
Without ever touching
The warm blood of supple flesh—
Are you, are you not lonely?
Have you no aroused desire?
No wish to feel and dream with her?
To what her fiery lips reveal
Are your dull eyes forever blind?
The clear water, overflowing,
Alas, became impure.
Thou art the son of iniquity,
And I the daughter.
22 
