mettā

may your woman tingle under the moon

your man wear the sun on his head

your blood reach the ocean

your garden catch

the passing season’s bounty

your loneliness find a mountain

your heart be married

your desires find safe passage

your lust be kind

your feet fit the shoes

that fit the path you’re on

may your autumns be golden

as the spring is fresh

may your winters clean you to the bone

may your bruises bloom

may work well anchor your ship

may some faith in a master plan

come not too late and

may happiness be your longest day

for having crossed your path

may others continue lighter on their way

when ladened with sadness

may your soiled soul stand

under a shower of stars

and hang white

in the fierce flap and clap

of a western wind

may you be taken by surprise

by a horde of children

dragged up the hill

to see the dawn

of eastern risings

may the boulder of your troubles

be dragged in the attentive

serious mouth of an ant

way, way down

into the earth

when ennui and fatigue

have sucked the red out of your veins

in a smooth triumphant stride

may the swan glide over

the facts of your life

and establish a new reign

may you enter death

to the tentative chorus

of birds at dawn