One wonders why Quán Sú’s so dead.
Ask for the abbot, you get no one.
The monks no longer beat the temple drum.
The nuns just say their beads and then are gone.
At morning light, no one struck the gong.
Late afternoon, the mossy walks undone.
To hell with life as snug as hand in glove.
This scene’s made sadder by our debt of love.