Time has no will.Leave it alone,and it is slow,
Executing nothing, never starting or finishing anything,
Incessantly shapechanging, becoming something other,
For no reason or purpose , no deadline at all
It is the theatre of the shadow puppets,
The Sanskrit verses of the sea.
Landlocked souls yearn for that wild shore.
On the wall reliefs of a wat.
Gold dancing lovers embrace, fingers curled
Into mudras, faces blissful,oblivious,eyes closed,
Stupa-helmets antennae angled to the gods,
Thirty-two guardian spirits within.
I could stare forever into a Buddha’s face,
His skull becoming mine.
A ball of sticky rice in the hand:
Civilisation’s last word. A fat happy syllable.
I climb the naga steps of the temple,
Lifted by the garuda-winged eaves.
April full moon’s waters want to drown you
In memory,wash you up on some shore
Where life can begin anew.
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