Bushels of Buddhas,
Stacked in rows on silent stone,
Truth lost, sold for gold.
Suffering blooms here,
In the chase for more and more,
Never satisfied.
I stand in silence,
Surveying myself in rows,
My likeness for sale.
A Plastic belly,
A thousand faces, all mine—
Yet none of them me
I lift one gently,
Fingers trace the hollow curve,
Where is the spirit?
Compassion branded,
My smile reduced to a grin,
Empty as the price.
And yet I wonder,
Do they seek me in this clay,
Or just a token?
To buy myself now,
Is this the path to release,
Or the bind of greed?
Clinging to what fades,
They hope to fill the hollow,
But emptiness reigns.
This endless craving,
More Buddhas bought, none are found—
They grasp at shadows.
In the open air,
Breezes whisper truth I know—
Nothing lasts, not even me.
I smile once again,
Not for the market, or coin,
But for the void’s laugh.
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