My baby, my child born of my troubled spirit, fiery and sharp as a shuriken, I embrace you and hold you to my breast. The blood you suck from my nipple is the milk of peace. Pain subsides as my baby stops his crying and, contented, sleeps.

"Anger," I say lovingly as I lay him in his crib. "Little Anger. Sleep, baby, sleep," I coo.

Sensing the summons of the Master, I put a bandaid on my mangled nipple and leave my chambers. Walking the torchlit hallways through the labyrinthine temple, my hands in a mudra, I breathe to no avail. Anger sleeps, but his sister, Sadness, clings to my hand.

"Daddy," she says. "I can't sleep."

"Hush, love," I say. "The Master will know what to do."

"So," a voice suddenly at my side. It is Xian Di, a younger, more powerful warrior. His beauty is remarkable. "Master likes to call you 'Poet', but I call you, 'Pooey.' What do you think of that?"

"It is not my name, honorable Di," I say.

"Pity, Pooey," he says, circling. He is not in a fighting stance, but we both know he has no need. "How is it you live this miserable life? Would you not like me to end it for you now?"

"I would prefer not, honorable Di," I reply. I do not do a salute but a full Zen bow, my neck fully unguarded. As I return to an upright position, he smiles as he meets my eyes. He glances down momentarily at my daughter, shyly peering at him from behind me.

"So," he says, more gently. "What brings you into these hallways in the long hours before dawn?"

"The Master," I say. "She calls."

"Go then in peace," he says, the word 'peace' like an epithet in his mouth.

I salute and depart.

"Poet!" he calls.

I turn.

"No need to tell the Master you saw me here."

"I am sure the subject will not come up," I reply.

He smiles. I salute and depart again.

The Master sits on the floor amid myriad candle flames. She is watching for me expectantly as I enter. She is beautiful: plump with smooth golden skin radiant with wisdom and flowing white hair. Her gravity pulls me into the chamber. I bow to the floor, placing my forehead on the terra cotta before approaching her.

"Poet," she says. "Welcome. Sit."

I sit.

"It is a time of change. You must change your attitude," she says. "A powerful rainstorm washes away all uncleanliness. Deliverance from tension and difficulty is at hand, but you must meet your own responsibilities if deliverance is to take place.

"Difficulties are given by the Higher Power to urge corrections we have not initiated of ourselves," she continues. "Let your inferior influences give way to peace through meditation and contemplation. Forgive the misdeeds of others. Meet them halfway with gentleness and patience."

"When your attitude has truly changed, you will be detached, innocent, modest and accepting. In this state you will allow progress to unfold naturally according to the will of the Sage."

"Beware ideas that flatter your ego. Such ideas prevent deliverance. Through devotion to correctness they are removed and the way is cleared for good fortune. Free yourself from inferior influences, both in yourself and in your acquaintances, otherwise there is no room for the superior influences. Firmly break with inferior influences - fear, lust, desire, envy, pride - in your own mind. No external action will suffice, but inner disengagement only will remove them."

"Put aside your ego. Respond with gentleness and detachment and deliverance will come."

"Master," I say. "My daughter is wakeful."

Master casts her kindly eyes on Sadness. "She is awake because of you. Quiet yourself and love her as you did with her baby brother, Anger. She, too, will go to sleep. Then you will be at peace and ready for deliverance."

"Thank you, Master," I say. I bow, forehead to the floor, and return to my cell.

Anger snores quietly in his crib. I tell Sadness a story of sunlight on the water, blue skies and starlight, and faeries who cheer us and make us smile. Soon she is sleeping and, not too much later, so am I.

I have no connection and wake unrested, but I know the work I have to do. The children, manifestations of my ego, are gone. I am empty, a vessel waiting to be filled.