A Note On Buddhism

A bell is rung inside the front temple

By a boyish monk holding a falling rope

Splashing noise to the neighborhood

Hungry echoes feeding on percussion

And empty souls pacified by chants of metal


Hope they call it……

The echo of brass against brass

The flow of what dances in the mistral

And serenades loneliness

To bring forth flowers and incense sticks

To partake rituals of community

In an act of worship


A temple bathed in saffron robes

And many forms of light – fire, phosphorus and electricity

Uniting robes and garments on holy soil

Where beneath forms of worship

Lies the cement of amity

Laying sun-parched bricks- souls sculpted of mud and burnt inside kilns

What crumbles and wastes alone

Yet unites with limestone and clay

To build a quaint little home

On a floating lotus flower


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