ascetic bliss
In the snowfield all white without a speck blot
You will get snow blind
If the azure is pure blue without a cloud
You will lose your mind
If life is smooth and sweet like biolac
A baby may enjoy, but a man gets cloyed
Hence there need to be clouds, blots and coffee
Just as the Tibetan pilgrim scrawl in all fours
All the way to the shrine, measure by measure
To feel the rough of the holy land in person
To the full length of their body and soul