A Weekend Journey through Emptiness

The golden robe is but a gilded shroud, a hollow bell that tolls for the proud. He speaks of Śūnyatā, of the void, the light, while cloaking his hunger in the velvet of night. From northern frosts to the red dust of heat, the ego follows on arrogant feet. He dissects the schools, the logic, the art, while the seed of a predator blooms in his heart. He mocks the feminine, a joke, a slight, turning sacred space into a theater of spite. The nuns are shadows, erased from the view, while he drinks their silence, a poison he drew. The Turkey watches with a black, knowing eye, a mirror of truth beneath a wide southern sky: That the "Venerable" mask is the emptiest thing, a puppet of lust on a conceptual string. Venerable Losang Gendun is a Dutch Bhikshu?