And so the gateless gate says:
That a dog may too have Buddha-nature,
But to question leaves one in one.
That the title one does not know
Much far past its holder.
That one knows not what one says
When doing means not burning.
That a thief may yet be redeemed
But not the murderer of time.
Nor can the murder of wealth
That which makes the mass hunger.
That hunger is best denied, if noticed
Must be then indulged.
That death is the end
And all continues.
 
//Nodding in and out of life
Something somewhere broke
now i feel i must lay down
how i think and spoke.//
 
Yet it continues:
That the ego-shell must shimmer-
shatter to truly be oneself.
No oneself, but web striding
Interlock-clicking circles
in together, in a part.
//So am i
then within the whole, or
is the whole all
of me?//
Both, none, neither nor
Anything at all.
We all
Motes of dust, mighty kings
Specks of soil, the richest things;
A flower simply is
Pretty as these
dying clouds, steam of flames
all from one source streams.
 
//And so when, not if
i return to this source…
if what i is is
not at all,
am i then
to go on?//
 
//It doesn't answer.
As it doesn't concern.
Gateless sir
himitself is dead
and speaks symbol graphics.
i amn't yet writing sticks,
thusly can’t be read.//