Stupa

The beauty of a stupa
Is not in the white coats of paint
Or the flawless curvature or the majestic apex,
It is found when pilgrims form queues
Carrying blooming lotus flowers
A flower of detachment that adorns a little shrine
In front of a Buddha statue
And tranquilizers the anxious mind
From the grip of the contemporary

The stupa and the lotus flower
Are solitary creatures in a profound meditation
Of isolation and in every incarnation
You search for the meaning of impermanence.
An interval of time that we cannot erase
Seeking a subjective place we call identity
To identify the being inside
Who radiates singularity within a vast plurality
Of a wise species – Home sapiens

And mankind is made of clones
Trying valiantly to be at peace
With the totality of self, where stationed
Is a secluded vitality, dripping life
To an open bucket of time

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