The stray winds from a far-off place

Gather round over a still pool

And here the surface breaks.

 

(The mirror is briefly smudged

And the face is now clouded.

The ripples clear; a new face smiles.

 

But perhaps it did not end thus.)

 

A hand reaches through the barrier

And feels the mud and sand.

The water is now dirtied.

 

A writhing hand tries to quell the chaos,

But the seed buried beneath it all

Yet yearns to break free, to sprout.

 

But this flower shall not be abided.

This odd lotus shall not bloom

Where many lilies still grow.

 

Nip it in the bud and lay it to rest.

The cut root dies a silent death.

But yet more seeds lie below.

 

The hand is bloodied by the knife.

The new seeds shall bloom, and

The lily and lotus, side by side.