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Category: Ramya Jirasinghe

Love in the Cave of the Buddhas

Yungang Grottoes. From Travel Blog

The cave roof was high enough to tower
Over the trees in the forest that had
Grown around these medieval refuges.

We were two ghosts – wandering in abandoned
Land, apparitions from the future.
For we were dying. They, languid and still,
The buddhas, gazed down at us, their eyes
Gentle, free of judgement, seeing us, bodies in
Parts, hair, down, nails, teeth, skin, clay pots with
Hot air, bobbing on a river surface.
You ourselves all of us  and our love, like
Morning sunrays shining into the caves
To disappear traceless at dusk leaving
The buddhas holding their stone lotuses
Languid and still.

I was Siddhartha’s Mother

They carried me into the forest.
The sal trees, shaken by our clamour
Showered small soft flowers on us.
The trees’ slender trunks rose column-like
Into the leaves, and everywhere, that scent.

He was born on a floor of petals.

Later, he will talk about impermanence:
Bodies are flowers, fading.
Faded, the newborn.

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