Before turning it into flames,
Buddha watches his last desire,
The last lust,
And sees,
How desires overpowered him before,
And how feeble the desire had become now,
That it is begging to be there,
In a corner of his chest.
The beautiful daughter of death,
Spreads her bosom with hopes,
Not knowing,
The seed of passion that she thought,
Was actually the seed of compassion,
Now blossoming in her,
Not that she did not let go of Siddhartha,
The truth is that,
Siddhartha did not let go of her.+++(4)+++