Buddha has stood in the middle of our path
Away from our cleverness and a swirling boat
A felicity of word, a beauty of image, a thing.
In the green waters he had waited for us men
To lift concrete goodness and politician's fame
Of an actor petrified in the histrionics of time.
Buddha stands in his stone pleats in the lake
His dazzling smile of a middle path beckons us
From our own concrete holes, to a golden dusk
That glorifies the lake, with all its dirty contents
Flowing from our shames in our concrete holes.
Posted at 05:03 pm by adukuri