Unchanging
The Lord Buddha came by me,
With him a shaved, cloaked monk.
They fed me with words of wisdom,
Words of Nirvana,
Words of good,
Words of Parinirvana,
Words of bad.
But they were wasted words,
A waste of breath, useless words.
Evangelists, they were called,
Leaving traces of the Buddha behind them,
Traces of soporific swirls of smokes,
Traces of dust and ashes
Traces of leaves from the banyan tree
And the ring of the bells in the air.
But I will not be part of the traces
And their traces will not be part of me.
The world of the Buddha,
So modest, so kind, so caring
Full of reason, moral and guiding,
Cannot touch me, my soul or my spirit
As I cannot touch the Buddha, his monks, or his past.
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THE GOODS
You're currently reading the poem
Unchanging, which
was posted on May 31, 2009 by
All_Her_Fault.
This is a collaborative poem.
About this poem
"Just a poem I wrote when I was in Chiang Mai, visiting the temples for a school ..."
This poem is filed under:
Religion / Spirituality
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