SILL DILLY Sipping herbal tea neath a lonely tree, said a weary wise man of a World too corrupt, "Oh this physical trap, this material rut as the food turns to crap not even butterflies are free, they just seem to be!" So when this downcast human looks up and around after napping to ask rather quaintly, "What is the sound of one hand clapping?" Say: "Ever so faintly it is seldom heard - whi-whi, whi-whi, whi-whi, like the wing of a bird."

next poem previous poem Storyline Index page 1, 2, 3 Alphabetical Index, page 3 Contents Angelfire Home Pages Absolute Background Textures Archive John Talbot Ross