Naropa fought the great pandits of his day
in dialectic debate, before a divine hag
showed up, ugly and mad, literate only
in the language of that skylike reality
beyond philosophy. When she questioned
all this garrulous intellect, he finally entered
stupefaction, a state without hope, without home.
Yet I'm still wedded to a wellspring of words,
tethered to tomes of learning,
and might only know renunciation
when my breath rattles without elocution,
my hands shake, incapable of mudra then.
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