The chances are the dust from the hermitage
outside the city
be carried in the bowl of time. When close
to history the hair on the skin
moves to the light from the tunnel of past.
A monk goes to the forest
learns ways to live a hundred years. Covered
in meters of matted hair
he arrives at the large mansion, speaks of
the prince who renounced
kingdom, wife, child. Nails and bones
from his emaciated body
are stripped to cells of hunger and thirst.
Interned urns excavated
from burial site carry the scent of ripe pear
dimples of yellow-green
like sodden leaves during monsoon. I choose
a chamber to sit in silence
the open window and trunks of lined trees
the iridescent sky.
Is there a need to clean the floor, the sharp
whispers of the broom
in the quietness? The beaked Palash flowers
are ready to fall.
Birds with extended necks and throbbing throats
alert for flight.