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This Banyan Tree, by Albert Marshall

This Banyan Tree

this banyan tree as old as generations before the oldest dynasty

it knows rituals

from bamboo annals

of the divine rites of the yellow king

of slavery of nobility

and under the umbrella of this tree of mysteries

I took shelter in the chambers of echoing millennia

and I ate the roots of the lotus

and I dreamt of the tranquil cascades of winter

of the chaste snow-capped peaks of the bluehills

and of immortality

I woke up to the sacred rhythms of primordial drums

to the royal chants that sound like the wind

to a procession of pale monks in yellow rows

behind the yellow throne of the king of yellowness

but from under banyan’s umbrella

I did not stir

because under the flowing locks of this magic banyan

I imagined I had been before

a sinology ago

an immortality ago

swaddled in this yellow bed of dandelion

to the rhythmic lullaby of these drums

it seemed as if

as if I’d been


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