A young man, hands clasped like a mendicant
bows before the fountain in the town square
the morning after the first full moon in May
Hands cupped beneath the tumble of
mineral waters blessed in the light of the same

moon glowing in the sky over Buddha’s birth

He is disheveled in an almost calculated way
tangled mass of blond hair Rastafarian knot on top of his head
as if he had slept on it under the same moon
He is driven by the same longing as every

Buddha, the intervening three thousand years as

timeless as ever

Waves of yearning emanating, palpable, almost
visible, vibrating like a 60’s light show
The only sound is breathing, his and mine
in sync

Bustling tourists unaware of the pure silence
or that they also would be Buddhas one day

Waves of yearning seeking bliss in the
silence that is the essence of the Buddha

 

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