Master kahlil Gibran sat upon the Buddha tree as it fell over my meditational seclusion; though my hearts incense was lofty on that day. Oh yea, lofty pillar beneath my heart that left stone flavoured heartache barriering my wall. Those iblis struck the Buddha's tree and down dwindling over my soul did its heart fall; its ashes blackening mine before the night could warrn the stars to cry teardrops so mine own heart might have the seed of that tree extend its roots to reach bliss once more. Kahlil died that day and that day I perfected the succession.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem