If gold coins are anathema for an ascetic, what about words
that like lust tangle thoughts? Images strewn across
the noisy bazaar are the temptations I keep away.
Instead I gather stones unpolished by the senses,
monotones of experience drained of colours: these
I secret in my collection box made of Burma teak,
while the clock ticks time through the monochrome day,
and minutes crawl like ants burdened by crystals of sugar.
Photo courtesy: Tim Dobbs