Children shone in the front gate and put their hands together in the
demon pavilion.
Then they went up red-dusted steps toward the granite stupa, where they
didn't hesitate to bow with their mothers.
Thick white candles with reverse swastikas and rows of images on the
ascending plinths of stone.
I crouched under the temple, in the cool shadow, by the outdoor Nestlé's
coffee dispenser--and was aroused when two women strode by in russet
"Color of the dharma's robes," said monk Sôgu suddenly beside me.
I followed him down the hill and sat on a log. There was a small lake and
I was calm enough at last. . .to listen to my new uncle conduct the
neighborhood's Bodhisattva orchestra, seated on folding chairs in the mud
beside it.

by Walter K. Lew

Other poems of WALTER K. LEW (1)

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