water free of blood

on the Pagoda trail,

near a French-owned rubber plantation

deep inside an Asian mystery

where mood is breath

where one brief inhale can lead to death

or picture this

or notice that

peering into the stiff wind,

the thick sandals are walking point

sweating with resolve 

across the endless grass fields,

into knee-deep mud

into shadows where ghosts stand guard,

each horizon moving farther away,

and mountains prowl with quiet stealth,

hiding behind a solitary tree

disappearing into a shallow hole 

dug near the eastern coast 

where the tidal waves roar

sounding like feral dogs 

on alert atop an Emperor's highest step,

And The Monk, 

sifting the sand

waving away a swirling fog

sitting like a lotus flower

heading south in his blue Austin car to a busy Saigon road intersection,

went looking for a single piece of rice

and a sip of water free of blood.